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This book is supplied by MESSRS. E. P. BUTTON 
 & Co. to Booksellers on terms which will not 
 admit of their allowing a discount from the ad- 
 vertised price. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/catherineschildOOdelarich 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. HENRY DE LA PASTURE 
 
 // 
 
 AUTHOR or '* pktkk's motvbr " ; 
 
 " THK LONBLY LADY OF GROSVENOB SQUARK " ; 
 "the UAN FROM AMBRICA," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET 
 1909 
 
Copyright 
 
 E. P. DuTTON & Company 
 
 1908 
 
 
 '*•:• s 
 
 Zbe ftniclterboclter pceee, Dew Dork 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 Only if wakening to sad truth at last, 
 The bitterness to come, the sweetness past, 
 When thou art vexed, then turn again to see 
 Thou hast loved Hope — but Memory has loved thee. 
 
 Hood. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Philippa Adelstane was sixteen years old, and 
 the heiress-presumptive of Welwysbere Abbey, in 
 the county of Devon ; of the great property apper- 
 taining thereto, and of a very considerable fortune 
 besides. 
 
 She lived with her mother, Catherine, the widow 
 of the late Sir Philip Adelstane, at Shepherd's 
 Rest, a small farmhouse on the side of a steep 
 wooded hill, which afforded views of a fair broad 
 valley and of a wide expanse of agricultural 
 country divided into chessboard squares of ara- 
 ble and pasture, and backed by a far-reaching 
 chain of blue hills. 
 
 Below the cottage where Philippa dwelt could 
 be discerned the turrets of the Abbey among the 
 
 941G42 
 
2 . •^.,.'. CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 trees of the deer-park. The farms of her expected 
 inheritance were scattered over the hillsides. 
 In the valley itself, the low roofs of Welwysbere 
 village bordered a single street, dominated at one 
 end by the square brown tower of the village 
 church, and at the other by Squire Chilcott's 
 white house, which stood a little apart, sur- 
 roimded by its own grounds and solid farm 
 buildings. 
 
 Welwysbere, being entailed in the male line, 
 was now the property of Sir Cecil Adelstane, who 
 had succeeded his uncle, Sir Philip. But Sir Cecil 
 had been married many years and was yet 
 childless, so that the eventual succession of 
 Philippa to her late father's estate appeared 
 certain. 
 
 Sir Cecil had almost ceased to regret the non- 
 arrival of his expected sons; he was fond of 
 his young cousin, and proud of her good looks, 
 which nearly resembled his own. 
 
 His family pride was further soothed by the 
 reflection that it would not be the first time in the 
 history of the Adelstanes that the Abbey had 
 descended through a female, and that Philippa *s 
 son would be entitled to assume the name and 
 arms of the family, as the son of her ancestress 
 had done in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, nor 
 were his descendants a penny the worse for the 
 circumstance. 
 
 But if Philippa had inherited her fine features, 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 3 
 
 straight profile, and haughty expression from 
 her father, she no less resembled her grand- 
 mother, Lady Sarah Adelstane, in the brightness 
 of her colouring, her tall, well-formed figure, 
 and the ruddy tint of her splendid chestnut hair. 
 
 Old Lady Sarah recognised the reproduction 
 of her former self with unfeigned pleasure, and 
 when she learned that Philippa, in addition to 
 her beauty, had also inherited her early wilful- 
 ness and headstrong temper, she was more 
 amused than concerned. Lady Sarah had long 
 since acquired philosophy, a possession which 
 doubles in value with every year of advancing age. 
 
 She was no longer beautiful, but she insisted, 
 with great spirit, upon rendering herself as pic- 
 turesque as possible. Her height had dwindled, 
 for the burden of years weighed down her shoul- 
 ders in spite of the most gallant efforts she could 
 make; but her blue eyes were still bright, her 
 white wig was becomingly dressed, and her deli- 
 cate wrinkled face was even shrewder and merrier 
 now than in the days of her youth. 
 
 On Philippa's face the merriment was lacking. 
 Though not so entirely devoid of humour as 
 her cousin, Sir Cecil, she was yet too young to 
 appreciate her grandmother's light-heartedness. 
 The levity of Lady Sarah pained no less than it 
 puzzled her. 
 
 Lady Sarah had passed her eighty-second 
 birthday; thus, since she could no longer ex- 
 
4 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 tort her friends' admiration for her youth, she 
 liked to astonish them with her age, and by add- 
 ing an imaginary decade was enabled to al- 
 lude to herself as a nonagenarian with perfect 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 She did not see her grandchild often. She 
 lived in London, and spent her winters abroad; 
 but as the little house in Curzon Street was too 
 small to accommodate visitors, and as Philippa's 
 mother seldom or never left home, their meetings 
 were confined to the rare occasions when the old 
 lady took it into her head to visit her grandson 
 at Welwysbere. 
 
 These visits were infrequent, for, though she 
 was fond of Sir Cecil, she detested his wife, 
 Augusta; and was convinced besides that the 
 damp of the West Country was detrimental to her 
 constitution. 
 
 About the time of her granddaughter's six- 
 teenth birthday, however, she invited herself to 
 the Abbey for Whitsuntide, and Philippa made 
 haste to acquaint her mother with the news that 
 Lady Sarah was coming. 
 
 She entered the oak parlour of Shepherd's 
 Rest breathless with the haste she had made in 
 climbing the narrow high-banked, winding lane 
 from the village to her home. 
 
 "Granny is coming to the Abbey, mother," 
 cried Philippa, " and Cousin Augusta says that 
 when they all go back to town after Whitsuntide 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 5 
 
 she wants to take me with her. Oh, mother, I 
 like Cousin Augusta better and better every 
 moment, she is so deliciously kind to me. I had 
 no idea she was such an angel. To be sure I 
 was only a child when I saw her last — not four- 
 teen — and she owns quite frankly that she never 
 cared for children. But now I am grown up 
 we are to be real friends. I think it's sweet of 
 her to be friends with me, don't you?" 
 
 *'My darling, how you have overheated your- 
 self," said Catherine. 
 
 Philippa flung her hat on to the sofa, and her 
 gloves after it, and her mother picked them up 
 as they fell on the floor. 
 
 "Bother!" said Philippa, ''and I thought you 
 would be so excited to hear the news about 
 Granny, mother. I almost ran all the way." 
 
 "So I am, very much excited," said her mother 
 placidly. "But for all that I wish you would 
 not run uphill in this warm weather. I am very 
 glad Granny is coming, and we will go together 
 to call upon her directly she arrives." 
 
 "Yes, yes. But about my going to town, 
 mamma? Don't begin by saying at once that 
 I am not to go, as you always do " 
 
 "You know I never accept such invitations 
 for you, Phil." 
 
 "Yes, but listen," said her daughter, im- 
 ploringly. "It is quite different from Cousin 
 Augusta's usual written invitations, which you 
 
6 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 used to say were hollow (though I am certain 
 now they couldn't have been). She really 
 means it, and Cousin Cecil wants me to go too; 
 and, what is more, they are not only going to 
 ask you themselves, but they are going to get 
 Granny to speak to you about it." 
 
 "Indeed," said Catherine. 
 
 She was not readily displeased, but the colour 
 rose in her soft face. 
 
 Philippa stood looking down upon her 
 mother, tapping an impatient foot upon the 
 polished oaken floor of the little parlour. 
 
 Against the background of innumerable books 
 which lined the room from floor to ceiling her 
 handsome, fresh-coloured face and bright hair 
 stood out with striking effect. 
 
 Catherine looked up from the writing-table, 
 where she had been making up her farm accounts, 
 at the dearly loved face, now deeply flushed 
 with purest carmine; at the curved mouth, with 
 its short upper lip and comers sulkily drooping; 
 at the straight brows drawn into a frown above 
 the black-lashed deep-blue eyes. 
 
 ** After all, I'm sixteen," said Philippa, rebel- 
 liously. 
 
 "At sixteen," said Catherine, and she tried to 
 laugh, *' London is, happily, not obligatory. 
 You will not come out for another two years, 
 you know." 
 
 **But that's no reason why I should never 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 7 
 
 go anywhere nor have any pleasure, no matter 
 who asks me,** cried Philippa, with a sudden 
 smothered sob. "Cousin Augusta says I ought 
 to go to town before I come out, and make 
 friends with people of my own age, and Cousin 
 Cecil thinks so too. You know he never says 
 anything without thinking it over. And, after 
 all, he*s my nearest relation, and my guardian 
 in a way." 
 
 **No,** said Catherine, "it is I that am your 
 guardian, though I very gladly take counsel with 
 your Cousin Cecil. Sit down, my darling, and 
 let us talk it over quietly together. If you 
 want to go to town so much, though it is a bad 
 time of the year for me to get away — what with 
 the hay and one thing and another — still, you 
 come first, and I will see what can be done. But 
 I have no idea of handing you over to Augusta. 
 I will take you myself, darling. Only, I thought 
 last time we went to London, Phil, that the trip 
 was not a success. You said you never wished 
 to go again.** 
 
 "Of course it wasn't a success,** said Philippa. 
 **Why, you know I hated it. You hated it your- 
 self, mother. It would be just like it was before 
 if you took me. A horrid hotel, and at the last 
 moment Aunt Dulcinea would insist on coming 
 with us; and there we should be, like regular 
 country cousins, all of us bewildered and not 
 knowing where to go or what to do, and every- 
 
8 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 thing hateful. I would rather stop at home if we 
 are to go like that." 
 
 "It would not be like that again," said Cather- 
 ine, but her mind misgave her faintly. *'You 
 are older now, and we could go to concerts and 
 theatres and picture-galleries, and — and — I dare- 
 say Aunt Dulcinea wouldn't want to come." 
 
 "You know she would,'' said Philippa. "And 
 you'd say it was unkind not to take her. Of course 
 we can't hurt her feelings — and theatres and 
 concerts are all very well in their way " 
 
 " I should think so," said Catherine. " Why, 
 when I was your age " 
 
 "Oh, mother, don't,'' said Philippa, despairingly. 
 "I know so exactly what you're going to say. 
 How a travelling circus or a fair seemed the wildest 
 excitement to you when you lived with your cross 
 old aunt in Calais; and how you were quite 
 contented to go down to the pier every day with 
 Sophy, and see the steamer come in; and how 
 grateful you were to my father when he bought 
 you a sixpenny fairing. You have told me a 
 thousand times." 
 
 "It is quite true. I have told you very often," 
 Catherine acknowledged ; but he felt a little pang, 
 nevertheless, as she heard the sacred recollections 
 of her girlhood thus ruthlessly epitomised. * ' It did 
 not take very much to content me in those days." 
 
 "Well, I am not a bit like you, and it wouldn't 
 have contented m^," said Philippa. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 9 
 
 "I don't know what would content you, Phil, 
 you are so restless." 
 
 "It would content me to go to London with 
 Cousin Augusta." 
 
 "And leave me — ?" There was a sound of 
 pain in Catherine's low voice. 
 
 "Of course, if you put it like that," cried Philippa, 
 angrily, "it takes away all the pleasure. But 
 either way it will be horrid, I suppose ; everything 
 always is. If you don't come, you will think me 
 cruel and heartless to go without you, though I 
 don't feel a bit like that," and she shed tears, 
 even whilst resisting with impatience her mother's 
 attempted caress. "And if you come, why, I 
 know you will hate it, and have nothing to do, 
 and only be longing to get back to the farm and 
 the dairy, and feeling sure everything is going 
 to rack and ruin without you, as of course it will." 
 
 "I always meant to take a house in London 
 when you were eighteen," said Catherine, meekly. 
 
 "What would be the good of that? You don't 
 know anybody in London," sobbed Philippa. 
 
 "But Lady Sarah does. She would take care 
 you had all the proper invitations. And I could 
 go everywhere with you, as your mother should.'* 
 
 "Not nowadays," said Philippa. "It's a 
 most old-fashioned idea, mother. And it's all 
 very well; but, as Cousin Augusta says. Granny 
 can't go on for ever; her friends are as old as the 
 hills; even if she would be bothered to think about 
 
10 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 me, which I am sure she wouldn't. And when 
 Cousin Augusta is so kind, and when you know 
 how much I love her '* 
 
 **Your love is only two days old,'* said Cath- 
 erine, smiling. 
 
 "It's just as real as though I had known her 
 for years. More real, for I haven't had time to get 
 tired of her," said Philippa, innocently. "Oh, 
 mother, I do think it's very hard I'm to be cooped 
 up in this horrid, dull old farmhouse for two 
 whole years more. You know yourself every one 
 wonders why we live here at all." 
 
 Catherine was silent; her gentle eyes regarded 
 her daughter wistfully. But whilst Philippa 
 was in this mood she could not remind her why 
 she held the little house sacred. She said to 
 herself, besides, that the child had some reason 
 on her side. Catherine was aware that the family 
 in general criticised her home, and found it a 
 most unsuitable residence for the young heiress 
 of Welwysbere. 
 
 "It won't be so dull for you this Whitsuntide, 
 my darling, since Augusta has come home, and 
 especially since you have taken this sudden 
 liking for her." 
 
 "But she will be gone back to town in a few 
 days. And she said herself that they would be a 
 very dull party — all elderly people — only Granny, 
 and the Raits, and old Lord John " 
 
 "Your Cousin Cecil said they would certainly 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 11 
 
 spend this summer down here, after their long 
 absence from Devonshire." 
 
 "But Cousin Augusta hasn't said so," said 
 Philippa, shrewdly. 
 
 * 'Anyway, David Moore will be at Bridescombe," 
 said poor Catherine, searching for further consola- 
 tion. "You were so anxious to see him when 
 we read about him in the newspapers during the 
 war." 
 
 "Of course I want to see him,** said Philippa, 
 dolefully. "Any one would like to see a hero like 
 that. But I should see him in London just as 
 well if he's going to be at the War Office. Besides, 
 after all, he's Hector and Lily Chilcott's uncle, 
 not mine." 
 
 Catherine glanced at her beautiful daughter, 
 and smiled tenderly to herself. What a child — 
 what a baby she was yet, though she looked so 
 tall and womanly! 
 
 "I am looking forward to seeing David again 
 very much. The brother of my dearest friend. 
 As a youth he used to be something like poor 
 Delia, quick and bright and decided as she was. 
 My heart aches for him, coming home to find only 
 her grave — and the children." 
 
 "But, mother — she died such years ago ** 
 
 "It does not seem so very long ago to me." 
 
 "It's all very well for you and Cousin George. 
 I suppose he will be glad to see his poor wife's 
 brother. But I do not see how his coming can 
 
12 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 make any difference to me. He will only be just 
 another old person, like Cousin George or Cousin 
 Cecil." 
 
 **He is younger than George or Cecil; they 
 are over forty, like Augusta." 
 
 ''She doesn't look nearly so old as they do," 
 said Augusta's faithful worshipper. 
 
 "David cannot be more than six-and-thirty — 
 still a young man." 
 
 "Mother, how can you! Why, he's older than 
 you. And if he will be a companion for you and 
 Cousin George, it ought surely to make it all the 
 easier for you to let me go to London with Cousin 
 Augusta, and have a little pleasure in life whilst 
 I'm still young enough to enjoy it, instead of 
 bottling me up here for ever and ever with no one 
 to speak to and nothing to do." 
 
 "I wish Augusta had not come down here at all 
 to unsettle you like this." 
 
 "Mother, I won't have you blaming her," 
 said Philippa, with flashing eyes. "You know 
 very well I've been unsettled for ever so long, 
 and wishing I could go anywhere or do anything 
 fresh and different." 
 
 Catherine could not deny the truth of this 
 statement. 
 
 "I wish you would not cry, my darling. It 
 will distress your Aunt Dulcinea so terribly when 
 she comes in." 
 
 ** Bother Aunt Dulcinea! You think of every 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 13 
 
 one's feelings but mine," said Philippa, woefully. 
 
 Catherine could not help smiling. 
 
 "Don't be a goose, Phil. Come upstairs, and 
 let me bathe your eyes and straighten this ruffled 
 mass of hair, and we will try to come to a better 
 understanding over this matter." 
 
 Philippa suffered her mother to take her arm 
 and lead her upstairs. She had no maid of her 
 own — another family grievance — and she was 
 accustomed to be tended almost like an infant by 
 those unwearying hands. But though submissive 
 she was pertinacious, and did not allow any 
 postponement or evasion of her demand. 
 
 "I'm sure I'm very reasonable, mother. I only 
 want you not to decide against my going until 
 you have heard what Cousin Cecil has to say,'* 
 she said; and it was hard for Catherine to resist 
 her child's entreaty when those fresh lips were 
 pressed against her cheek and when the beloved 
 voice took a coaxing accent. 
 
 "There are your lessons, you know, my darling." 
 
 "Am I never to have a holiday ? " cried Philippa, 
 tragically. 
 
 "Your life is one long holiday, I think." 
 
 "It may seem so to you, but it doesn't to me, 
 what with French reading and horrid old Moli^re, 
 and dull old biographies and things," said Philippa 
 resentfully. 
 
 "Do you want to learn nothing more — at 
 sixteen?'* 
 
14 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 "I know quite as much as most people. Cousin 
 Augusta can't even spell, and yet I am sure she is 
 fashionable and delightful, and nobody cares. 
 Oh, mother, forget to preach for once, and say you 
 will let me just pay this one visit." 
 
 "I will see about it," said Catherine, in the 
 relenting tone that was generally the prelude to 
 giving way, as Philippa well knew. 
 
 "You promise?" 
 
 "I promise an3rway," said her mother, "to 
 consult your grandmother before I decide finally 
 one way or the other." 
 
 Catherine had been a widow for so many 
 years that her grief for her husband had become 
 only the shadow and remembrance of sorrow. 
 
 She had been very young, hardly nineteen, 
 when Sir Philip died and his posthumous child 
 was bom. From that time onwards she had 
 made her home in this cottage on the hillside, 
 to which she had taken a romantic fancy shortly 
 before his death, and which he had bought and 
 given to her for her own. 
 
 Her girlhood had been passed in almost entire 
 seclusion, and her brief experience of marriage, 
 though it had widened her outlook and completed 
 the sole romance of her life, had not yet inspired 
 her with any great courage or desire to face again 
 the world from which she had timidly sought 
 refuge at Shepherd's Rest. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 15 
 
 From her latticed windows she beheld the turrets 
 of the great house where for so short a space 
 of time she had nominally reigned as mistress 
 — an inexperienced girl, bewildered with her 
 own happiness and frightened at her unexpected 
 elevation. 
 
 But if the mighty pile of ancient buildings 
 recalled her past importance, the square tower 
 of the old church in the valley below no less 
 solemnly and silently reminded her of the vanity 
 of all earthly greatness, for in its shadow stood 
 the broken column which marked Sir Philip 
 Adelstane's grave. 
 
 Catherine had never found her life at Shep- 
 herd's Rest dull. Independence has its own 
 charm, and she enjoyed the sensation of real 
 ownership for the first time when she looked 
 around her tiny domain. 
 
 She planned anew her garden, which shone in 
 the heart of the woods like a coloured jewel in a 
 dark setting. She lined her low oak parlour with 
 shelves from floor to ceiling, and filled those 
 shelves with books; for of reading Catherine 
 had never had, and perhaps never would have, 
 enough. Thus, though her outer existence ap- 
 peared prosaic, her inner life was filled with 
 colour and fancy. 
 
 She interested herself besides so deeply in 
 her farm and dairy, that she presently grew prac- 
 tical, and, after buying her experience somewhat 
 
16 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 dearly, found that in Devonshire, at least, it is 
 possible to make farming pay. 
 
 She reclaimed rough land, planted orchards, 
 studied forestry, learnt something about cattle, 
 and brewed excellent cider; keeping all within 
 and without her snug home in such a state of 
 order, neatness, and beauty that no one could 
 behold it and not be cheered by its aspect. 
 
 An energetic and faithful Somersetshire woman, 
 one Charlotte Roper, aided her mistress within 
 doors, and without an aged local wiseacre toiled, 
 aided by a burly labourer and by Charlotte 
 Roper's son Johnny, who took charge of Philippa's 
 pony, ran errands, and worked in the garden under 
 his lady's personal supervision. 
 
 It pleased Catherine to know that her income 
 was rolling itself up into a fortune for Philippa 
 which would make her independent, even if 
 the long-expected and now improbable son were 
 bom to Sir Cecil Adelstane; it pleased her yet 
 more to be able to give liberal assistance to her 
 poorer neighbours in time of need, and to be 
 justified in affording a domicile to her old aunt, 
 Miss Dulcinea Chilcott, whose last days she thus 
 rendered happy and peaceful, and whose presence 
 had lent protection to her niece's youth and 
 loneliness. 
 
 Miss Dulcinea, in spite of her advancing age, 
 was rarely to be found at home. She had lifelong 
 friends in the neighbourhood and in the adjacent 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 17 
 
 town of Ilverton; she knew every man, woman, 
 and child in the village of Welwysbere, visited 
 every cottage within reach, and read the Bible 
 to the inmates whether they liked it or not. Most 
 of them liked it, and all of them liked her, for 
 they had known her from childhood, and her 
 friendship was tried and trusted. The villagers 
 believed in her wisdom implicitly, and few of 
 them cared to take the doctor's medicine until 
 it had been handed to Miss Dulcinea for approval. 
 
 A dark disbelief in their physician, together 
 with constant recourse to his aid in the most 
 trifling ailments, was prevalent in Welwysbere. 
 
 As men who were in good health could not, or 
 would not, leave their work, it was generally 
 the patient himself who rose from the bed of 
 suffering and walked to Ilverton and back — seven 
 miles — to visit the doctor and obtain remedies 
 from the dispensary. 
 
 If the illness were complicated, and the invalid 
 in pain or unusually feverish, he would perhaps 
 treat himself to a return ticket for Exeter; since 
 the further away the physician lived the more 
 efficacious his aid was considered likely to be. 
 
 The excitement of the journey usually cheered 
 the sufferer, as the subsequent history of the 
 interview with his medical adviser cheered his 
 family and neighbours, for whose benefit it would 
 be many times recounted in detail. 
 
 Miss Dulcinea was too simple to quarrel with 
 
18 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 these methods, and there was some truth in her 
 excuses to Catherine. 
 
 "You laugh at them, darling, but, after all, 
 they do just what their betters do, only in a 
 humbler way. They can't afford to go further 
 than the next village or town, but we send our 
 invalids travelling about to look for health in 
 far countries, to visit chilly hotels with doubtful 
 drains and strange doctors, when they would 
 get well or die far more comfortably in their own 
 homes, with their own doctors to attend them 
 and their own people round them. I don't see 
 that the Welwysbere folk are so very unlike us in 
 their methods. '* 
 
 But Catherine's laughter was very gentle, and 
 expressed no contempt for Miss Dulcinea's sim- 
 plicity. She felt that she had, herself, no vocation 
 to set the village to rights, and contented herself 
 with her garden, her household, her farm, and the 
 upbringing of Philippa. 
 
 For above and beyond all other cares and inter- 
 ests, or the occupations she so happily found 
 for herself, stood Catherine's idol, her only 
 child. 
 
 She guarded Philippa's infancy and childhood 
 with jealous care, permitting no hands but her 
 own to tend the little maid ; nursing her, teaching 
 her, and playing with her, and sleeping nightly 
 by the side of the cot which contained her treasure. 
 
 Philippa, as was natural, rewarded this exclusive 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 19 
 
 devotion by a tyranny that was absolute in her 
 babyhood, and only modified outwardly as she 
 became older. She grew up exceedingly unlike 
 the daughter of Catherine's dreams. 
 
 Her mother dwelt sometimes with astonishment 
 upon her recollections of herself at sixteen. She 
 recalled a quiet, rather timid maiden, grateful 
 for the smallest notice, interested in the smallest 
 happenings, curled up for hours of breathless 
 absorption in every volume that came her way; 
 learning poems by heart for love; sewing endless 
 seams with patient neatness; assisting in the 
 manage; and writing business letters in a copper- 
 plate hand at her aunt's dictation. 
 
 Perhaps she recalled less clearly the fact that 
 she would hardly have become so proficient in 
 such duties had she not been actually compelled 
 by the exigency of circumstances. 
 
 The youthful Catherine might have preferred, 
 like the youthful Philippa, to throw her needle- 
 work on to the floor, and escape out of doors at 
 her own sweet will, had she been free to fol- 
 low her inclinations; but old Miss Carey, of 
 Calais, Catherine's aunt, having been a strict dis- 
 ciplinarian, her niece had dared try no such 
 experiment. 
 
 Philippa never sat curled up on the window-seat 
 as Catherine had pictured her, nestling to her 
 mother's side and devouring the story-books 
 which had been chosen for her and ranged on a 
 
20 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 special shelf within her reach before she was 
 four years old. 
 
 She never opened a book if she could help it, 
 did not like to be read to, and wept as copiously 
 over her lessons as though a stem taskmaster 
 were set over her, instead of the gentlest teacher 
 in the world. 
 
 Far from rejoicing when an elegant inlaid 
 workbox was presented to her, she viewed it with 
 indifference, lost the thimble, used the embroidery 
 stiletto as a gimlet, and broke the points of the 
 scissors digging in the garden. 
 
 She took more interest in the farm, lavishing 
 personal affection upon the stock, and including 
 indiscriminately in her friendship the pony, the 
 pigs, the cows, and the aged labourer who super- 
 intended their welfare. But she could not be 
 trusted to be of the smallest use in any depart- 
 ment of the homely establishment. 
 
 She would offer to help in the dairy, upset the 
 cream, or leave off churning just as the butter 
 was coming, and rush away to do something 
 else; she would solemnly undertake to feed the 
 chickens, and forget all about them; she would 
 tear her frocks, and walk about ragged and 
 unconcerned; she ate green apples and climbed 
 trees in spite of all entreaties to the contrary, and 
 was triumphant because none of the evil conse- 
 quences predicted happened to result. 
 
 Whenever she could she escaped to Bridescombe, 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 21 
 
 to the society of her cousins, the children of the 
 widowed squire, George Chilcott ; but, truth to tell, 
 they were not much more inclined to welcome her 
 than her mother was to let her go. Nor did she 
 derive much benefit from their society; since 
 Hector, though bigger and stronger than she was, 
 could not fight a girl, however unreasonable and 
 provoking she might be ; while little Lily, though 
 willing to admire, was led into innumerable scrapes 
 through her senior's readiness to defy lawful 
 authority. 
 
 Miss Dulcinea found a thousand excuses for all 
 Philippa's misdemeanours, and, though Catherine 
 were ever so determined that her daughter should 
 not be spoilt, the presence of a constant champion 
 in the background rendered discipline of any 
 kind almost impossible. Philippa was perfectly 
 aware of her grand-aunt's sympathy, and the 
 knowledge nullified all her mother's attempts to 
 maintain her own supremacy. Naturally imperi- 
 ous, she grew daily more inclined to assert her- 
 self. She had shown a generous and affectionate 
 disposition as a little child, but these qualities 
 became obscured as she advanced towards woman- 
 hood; and, though she displayed an occasional 
 careless fondness for the gentle, foolish old relative 
 who was blind to her failings and flattered her 
 vanity, she did not, it must be confessed, sacrifice 
 a single inclination of her own to any care for 
 Miss Dulcinea's wishes and comfort, but, on the 
 
22 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 contrary, escaped from her society whenever it 
 was possible to do so. 
 
 Imperceptibly her mother's influence waned 
 with every succeeding year, and Catherine foimd 
 herself gradually assuming the false position of a 
 seeming tyrant to the being she loved above all 
 others in the world. But such situations develop 
 by very slow degrees, and she was herself unaware 
 of the cause until it was too late to amend the 
 effects. Though they lived under the same roof 
 and slept side by side, and were together almost 
 every hour of the day, Catherine could not help 
 feeling sometimes that her daughter was in 
 many ways becoming as a stranger to her. Often 
 she thought, with that loving bitterness which only 
 mothers know, *' I shall only have her a few years 
 longer; she might have waited — she might have 
 waited — until she was quite grown up.'* 
 
 Meanwhile, as Philippa lost her tomboy pro- 
 clivities and acquired no love for rational occupa- 
 tion to take their place, the young lady found 
 time hang heavily upon her hands and grew 
 daily more restless. Perhaps the knowledge 
 of her own importance as the last representative 
 of the Adelstane family had something to do 
 with her discontent. Her mother had endeavoured 
 with all her might to keep Philippa unspotted 
 from the world, isolating her in their country 
 cottage, and bringing her up simply and humbly ; 
 but it is a fact that worldliness is not confined to 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 23 
 
 cities, and in this obscure comer of the West there 
 were plenty of flatterers ready to pay court to the 
 little heiress of Welwysbere, and to comment 
 upon the position that should have been hers 
 as her father's daughter. 
 
 Philippa desired she knew not what; but cer- 
 tainly a change from the quiet sameness of her 
 everyday life on the farm. Perhaps to shine, to be 
 admired, to have her importance recognised in a 
 wider sphere. The natural restlessness of girlhood 
 was doubled by the circumstances in which she 
 foimd herself. She was not clever, but neither 
 was she in any sense a dull child; and she did 
 not show herself to others the baby her mother 
 thought her, but, on the contrary, evinced a cer- 
 tain shrewdness and dignity; so that her Cousin 
 Cecil believed her to be eminently suited by 
 nature for the position awaiting her. Philippa's 
 displays of idleness, imperiousness, and want of 
 consideration for others were, it must be confessed, 
 reserved chiefly for her home, and the girl was still 
 young enough to mistake wilfulness and lack of 
 self-control for strength of character. Thus, 
 after the almost unclouded happiness of Philippa's 
 early childhood, Catherine's existence had become 
 a little troubled during these later days, and 
 she vaguely perceived that the time was approach- 
 ing when a change must be made in the existing 
 order of things. When Philippa, therefore, broke 
 in upon her mother's tranquil daily occupations 
 
24 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 with her impetuous demand, the expression of 
 her child's wishes coincided, in a manner, with 
 Catherine's own vague determination. 
 
 *'I shall like a change as little in two years' time 
 as now," she thought with a sigh. ** Perhaps I am 
 growing selfish and too much absorbed in one 
 narrow groove. I know they all think so, and 
 what everybody thinks is apt to be true. After 
 all, when I chose this 'little life,' I did not know 
 that Cecil would have no children — that Philippa 
 might be called upon one day to occupy his place. 
 Perhaps I am really less suited to take her to 
 town than Augusta. And the child does not really 
 want me." This reflection caused Catherine a 
 sharp pang, though she tried to smile over it, and 
 repeated to herself more than once that imder 
 the circumstances this was only natural. 
 
 **It is quite true what Philippa says, I know 
 nobody in London, and should be a fish out of 
 water. As soon as Lady Sarah comes I will ask 
 her advice. She is very wise, and knows what 
 Philip would have wished for his child. I will 
 be guided by her." 
 
 Catherine was, perhaps, slightly consoled by 
 the reflection that Lady Sarah's decision would 
 not be influenced by any imdue prejudice in 
 favour of Augusta. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 The open space before the entrance of Welwysbere 
 Abbey was surrounded by clumps of tree azaleas, 
 dipping clouds of faintest coral and palest gold 
 blossom into the feathery flowering grasses which 
 rose knee-deep around them, half hiding the 
 thickets of rhododendrons, now crowned with 
 purple and crimson bloom. Beyond lay the 
 rolling slopes of the deer-park and the steep 
 green hillocks and valleys, relieved by all the 
 colours of spring — from the gay rose-red and 
 snowy white of the sturdy gnarled hawthorns to 
 the giant blush and ivory nosegays of the spread- 
 ing horse-chestnuts. 
 
 But though a group of persons stood upon the 
 lower steps of the front door, shading their eyes 
 from the dazzling rays of the western sun, their 
 gaze was not directed towards the landscape, 
 but bent upon a dingy object which occupied 
 the centre of the drive — a mud-spattered auto- 
 mobile, dropping oil upon the gravel, and emitting 
 an odour which overpowered the delicate per- 
 fumes of the spring. 
 
 The owner of the machine, a red-faced sporting- 
 25 
 
26 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 looking gentleman, was stooping over his property 
 with an air of almost passionate concern. 
 
 "I thought she would have broken her little 
 back coming up that last hill," he said, looking 
 up reproachfully at his host. 
 
 "It is very steep, but the horses make nothing 
 of it," said Sir Cecil, rather resentfully; "I never 
 had a horse who didn't face it all right." 
 
 "So did she face it," said Mr. Rait, defending 
 his treasure with emotion. "She faced it bravely, 
 too, or we shouldn't be here now." 
 
 "I could not have believed she would bear the 
 strain," said his wife, shaking her head. 
 
 "D'ye think she's all right, Hopkins?" de- 
 manded Mr. Rait, with renewed anxiety. 
 
 "Seems so, sir," said the chauffeur reluctantly, 
 "but it was taking it out of her something crool. 
 She ain't built for this 'ere country. It's asking 
 too much of her, that's what it is." 
 
 "I ought to have brought the Daimler," said 
 Mr. Rait, sadly. "You said so, Blanche, at the 
 time. However" — he cheered up slightly — "I 
 can send for her to-morrow, and so I will." 
 
 "Shall we go and find Augusta and have some 
 tea, Blanche?" said Sir Cecil, stiffly. He ignored 
 his brother-in-law and addressed himself to Mrs. 
 Rait, who prepared to follow him, after a last 
 anxious and sympathetic glance at the motor. 
 
 "I daresay you think we're rather foolish about 
 her," she said, with a sentimental intonation that 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 27 
 
 contrasted oddly with her lean, sensible face and 
 shrewd eyes ; * ' but she's such a little dear, carried 
 us thousands of miles." 
 
 "I suppose you've given up horses altogether,** 
 said Sir Cecil, in his even, formal tones, as he led 
 the way under the cool dark arches of the oak- 
 panelled hall to the garden door. 
 
 "Well, except for huntin,* and we did precious 
 little huntin' this winter. The fact is it's simply 
 fascinatin' to go explorin* Europe, which is what 
 we did instead of stoppin* up at Rait through 
 the winter as usual. You don't mean to say you 
 and Augusta are still contented to go joggin' along 
 in the family coach, and all the good old ways?" 
 
 "I believe I am old-fashioned, and I am happy 
 to say Augusta continues to prefer the good old 
 ways." 
 
 "You don't say so! Hullo! tea on the lawn! 
 Come, that's an innovation. Augusta used to 
 hate tea out of doors." 
 
 "She is doing the fresh-air cure." 
 
 "I'm sure I'm glad to hear it. It was time 
 she did a cure of some kind," said Mrs. Rait 
 cheerfully. "I live in a thorough draught myself 
 now, and look at me." 
 
 Sir Cecil looked, but his sister-in-law was too 
 much engrossed in her observation of the assem- 
 bly of persons which now became visible at the far 
 end of the lawn to notice the dissatisfied expres- 
 sion upon his handsome face. 
 
28 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 **I thought Augusta said there wasn't to be a 
 party. Who in the world are all those people 
 under the cedar if there isn't a party?" she 
 cried. 
 
 ' 'There is no party. My grandmother is staying 
 here, and in consequence of her advanced age 
 we thought it better to be quiet. There is only 
 Lady Grace Trumoin, and Lord John Trelleck, 
 whom you know." Mrs. Rait emitted an expres- 
 sive grunt. "The others are our neighbours, 
 George Chilcott and his sister — you remember 
 them? — and his poor wife's brother, Colonel 
 Moore, who has just returned to England." 
 
 "David Moore? I know him, too. Met him in 
 South Africa. Splendid chap," said Mrs. Rait 
 heartily. 
 
 "You know every one, Blanche." 
 
 "I go about the world, keep my eyes open, and 
 pick up friends all over the place," said Mrs. 
 Rait, who had equipped a field hospital at her 
 own expense during the South African war, and 
 quarrelled with the authorities over every detail 
 of its organisation. "Bless me, you don't mean 
 to say that tall girl is little Philippa!" 
 
 "She is only sixteen," said Sir Cecil, with 
 something of fatherly pride in his tone. "But she 
 is a very fine girl indeed — strangers would take her 
 for nineteen or twenty." 
 
 Here Lady Adelstane perceived the advent of 
 her husband and sister, and came across the 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 29 
 
 lawn to meet them as quickly as dignity and 
 embonpoint combined would permit. 
 
 The twin sisters presented a remarkable con- 
 trast: Blanche, tall and somewhat scraggy in 
 figure, with a tanned and weather-beaten appear- 
 ance, which the rigidity of her motor-coat and 
 peaked cap did nothing to soften or disguise; 
 while Augusta preserved a certain youthfulness 
 of contour in spite of her forty years. Her dress 
 was eminently becoming; her soft throat and 
 dimpled chin rose from cobweb folds of lace and 
 muslin, and her face, cherubic in its roundness, 
 was shaded by the latest Paris creation in garden 
 hats. 
 
 As the sisters embraced, their respective hus- 
 bands could not but observe their striking 
 dissimilarity. 
 
 "Poor Blanche!" reflected Sir Cecil; ''she is 
 certainly plainer and more ungainly than ever, 
 and her voice becomes louder every year." 
 
 He was thankful that Providence had directed 
 his choice to the yoimger of the twin heiresses of 
 the late Lord Mocha. 
 
 "Poor Augusta!" thought Mr. Rait, who had 
 hurried after his wife, having lingered but to 
 express his feelings regarding the configuration 
 of the country, more freely than politeness per- 
 mitted in the presence of his host and brother-in- 
 law. *'I declare she has put on another couple 
 of stone at least since we last came down. And 
 
80 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 here is Blanche more active than ever, able to 
 nip out and push the little car uphill with the 
 best of us." 
 
 "Darling," said Augusta, whose affection always 
 increased, though but temporarily, when she had 
 not seen her sister for a long time, "how glad I 
 am you've come! It is actually three years since 
 you were here." 
 
 "How time flies, Gussie; so it is. But you 
 haven't been down here for ages yourself, have 
 you? Which accounts for your not inviting 
 ffWy I suppose," said Blanche in high good 
 humour. 
 
 "The doctors wouldn't hear of my coming last 
 year. They said I must be braced or they wouldn't 
 answer for the consequences," said Augusta 
 plaintively. * * I don't know how it is, but I always 
 get so run down at Welwysbere." 
 
 Sir Cecil coughed uneasily. 
 
 "We are practically alone," said Augusta, hur- 
 riedly changing the conversation and leading 
 the way to the tea-table. "I hope you won't be 
 bored to death." 
 
 "If I am," said the outspoken Blanche, "I can 
 easily nip off with Bob to Ilfracombe or Land's 
 End for a jaunt and a breath of sea air, and put 
 ourselves into a good humour. You've no idea 
 what a resource we've found motoring. But I'm 
 not particularly likely to be bored with David 
 Moore about. He's a great pal of mine. I held 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 31 
 
 his leg at Bloemfontein whilst the surgeon sewed 
 it up." 
 
 "Really, Blanche " 
 
 But Mrs. Ralt's manly stride had already car- 
 ried her in advance of her sister and hostess to 
 the cedar tree, and by the time Augusta arrived, 
 breathless, in her wake, Blanche had shaken 
 hands with the whole party there assembled 
 and uttered her hearty greetings in her most 
 penetrating tones. 
 
 "Well, Colonel Moore, this is luck indeed! I 
 had no idea I was to meet you here. So you're to 
 be at the War Office. Hope we shall see something 
 of you, though town's not much in my line; but 
 you can run up and stay with us, eh? How are 
 you, Grace? You look flourishing. Philippa, 
 you were a kid in short frocks when I saw you last. 
 De do, Lord John, de do. Miss Chilcott." This 
 last salutation was a very cool one; but George 
 Chilcott she greeted warmly : 
 
 "How are the Shire horses? Must come over 
 to your place again, if you will let me. I 
 got no end of wrinkles for Rait last time 
 I was there. You never came North as you 
 promised.'* 
 
 "I never go anywhere,** said George Chilcott, 
 smiling. 
 
 "Oh, George!" said his sister in deprecating 
 tones. 
 
 Miss Clara Chilcott was seven-and-forty, but so 
 
32 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 strong is the force of habit that her family still 
 regarded her as a girl. 
 
 She wore a shirt and skirt, big boots, and a 
 mushroom hat trimmed with daisies and butter- 
 cups. Though she resembled her brother George 
 not a little, being large and heavy in build, and 
 of a healthy, ruddy complexion, yet her mean- 
 ingless light orbs lacked the kindness that shone 
 from his steady blue eyes ; and nothing could have 
 been more unlike the expression of his firmly 
 closed lips beneath his yellow moustache than Miss 
 Clara's open mouth, and lower jaw perpetually 
 dropped in surprise or disapproval. 
 
 "I call this such a stupid time of the year in the 
 country," said Augusta to Mr. Rait, with whom 
 she found it difficult to converse, though she 
 always made a point of addressing at least one 
 remark to him at the beginning of his visit and an- 
 other at the end. ' ' No fruit or vegetables ; the peas 
 and strawberries actually only in flower, though we 
 have been eating them for months in town; but 
 London and Paris are the only places where one 
 can get fruit and vegetables all the year round." 
 
 " With your range of glass your gardeners 
 ought to supply you with plenty of forced straw- 
 berries — ours do," said Miss Chilcott, shocked. 
 **But I suppose through your being so much 
 away they get slack." 
 
 **I never think forced strawberries have any 
 flavour," said Augusta blandly. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 33 
 
 Miss Clara was proceeding to enumerate the 
 names of the best kinds of strawberries for forc- 
 ing when Mr. Rait interrupted. 
 
 "You're like me, only different/* he said, 
 with lucid elegance. "You like London all the 
 year round, and I like the country all the year 
 round. Chopping and changing is what I hate. 
 But I suppose you'll go back for the rest of the 
 season?" 
 
 "Cecil insisted on coming here for Whitsun- 
 tide," said Augusta, "though I never think it 
 worth while to come so far for so short a time. 
 You could have come to us on the river, you know. 
 My house there is really getting nicer every year. 
 I'm making a wall and water garden which is a 
 perfect dream. I am sure you and Blanche would 
 have liked it better than this in many ways." 
 
 "Augusta, how can you," said Lady Grace's 
 calm tones, "without wishing to insult your 
 charming bungalow — " She glanced expressively 
 towards the mellow creeper-clad walls of the 
 stately Abbey, with its rows of mullioned windows 
 blazing in the afternoon sunshine; at the broad 
 terraces whereon great stone urns on pedestals 
 held aloft scarlet and rose geraniums, and weather- 
 stained statues guarded flights of moss-grown 
 stone steps. The lawns were acres of velvet turf, 
 centuries old, and shaded with mighty cedars, 
 spreading oaks, and groups of tall elms sacred to 
 ancient rookeries; there were silent pools bearing 
 
34 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 rare lilies on their dark breasts, deeply shadowed 
 by the tall yew hedges that walled them in; 
 there were stiff out-of-date ribbon and heart- 
 shaped borders, bright with variegated foliage 
 in patterns, planted out for a brief summer season 
 after the fashion beloved of former generations, 
 and which Sir Cecil had no idea of changing to 
 accord with a modem taste he knew little and 
 cared nothing about. 
 
 To him old customs were sacred ; and Augusta, 
 who had her own way in so many things, dared 
 not interfere with the head gardener at the Abbey, 
 who had lived at Welwysbere and had charge 
 of the pleasure-grounds before Sir Cecil was bom. 
 
 Old Lady Sarah's pet parterre had been handed 
 over to Augusta's tender mercies, because it was 
 the custom from time immemorial for the lady 
 of the house to exercise her whims upon this 
 enclosure; and here Lady Adelstane was able 
 to indulge the modem craze for catalogue garden- 
 ing as cheerfully as she chose. Here she spent an 
 occasional half-hour happily enough with a bulb 
 list and a pencil, giving orders for the cutting 
 down and rooting up of old-established and well- 
 grown favourites, to make room for wonderful 
 new combinations of colour and effect; though 
 it was very improbable, since she never visited 
 Welwysbere in the early spring, that she would 
 behold the result of her plannings. 
 
 "I have heard your bungalow is too charming," 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 35 
 
 said Lord John, "and such a convenient distance 
 for week-ends." 
 
 "Grace always jeers at my Cockney villa," said 
 Augusta good-humouredly. "I shall ask her no 
 more; you shall come in her stead." 
 
 "I shall be delighted." 
 
 "Ask me here instead, Gussie," said Lady 
 Grace, shrugging her shoulders very slightly, and 
 reflecting how the good things of this life were 
 wasted upon people who lacked taste to enjoy 
 them. 
 
 She lay back in her easy chair and closed her 
 eyes for a moment, as though the low rays of the 
 sun were dazzling her. Perhaps she knew that 
 a background of scarlet cushions was becoming 
 to her white delicate-featured face and the long, 
 graceful outlines of her rather thin but still pretty 
 figure. 
 
 When she opened her eyes it was to perceive 
 that George Chilcott was regarding her with an 
 interest and kindness to which she was not insen- 
 sible. He had been a favourite partner long ago 
 when he was a young Guardsman and she a 
 debutante. She had then thought him somewhat 
 of a simpleton, and she observed that his sim- 
 plicity had not diminished now that he had broad- 
 ened into a typical forty-year-old country squire; 
 but the honesty and friendliness of his regard 
 were the same. She exerted herself to enter 
 into conversation with George, and their talk 
 
36 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 was full of the inquiries after old friends and the 
 reminders of pleasant days gone by incidental to 
 past intimacy. 
 
 "She wears well, though she must be forty, 
 by gad!" thought Lord John, adding half a dozen 
 years to the poor lady's age with the unfeeling 
 calm of a man who has grown tired of meeting an 
 acquaintance too often in unchanging circum- 
 stances. *'I wonder why she never married. She 
 was an uncommonly handsome girl once." 
 
 He too had enjoyed dancing and flirting with 
 Lady Grace when she first came out, some sixteen 
 seasons ago, and had even regretted for a time 
 that her lack of a fortune rendered it impossible 
 for him to fall in love with her seriously and 
 marry her. 
 
 But Lord John, who had grown bald and stout 
 and grey in the interval, and was, indeed, nearly 
 twenty years her senior, now looked upon this 
 slender, graceful woman as completely passee^ 
 and thought of her, when he thought of her at 
 all, with good-natured pity, as one of London's 
 failures. 
 
 **0h, must you go, Mr. Chilcott?" said Augusta. 
 
 "Surely you won't take Colonel Moore away 
 the moment I arrive?" shouted Mrs. Rait. 
 
 "We've been here for hours already," said 
 George Chilcott good-humouredly, "and though 
 David's an idle man for the moment, I'm not, 
 you know. Come, Clara." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 37 
 
 Miss Chilcott showed signs of a willingness to 
 linger, but her hostess shook her hand with so 
 much alacrity that she was obliged to follow the 
 Squire's decided lead. 
 
 "You must come over and see Lily soon, 
 Philippa. You've not been to Bridescombe for 
 ages, and she will want to see you in your first 
 long frocks," said Miss Chilcott with patronising 
 affability to Philippa, whose fair brow grew scarlet 
 with the agonised resentment peculiar to self-con- 
 scious youth imder the notice thus drawn to her 
 extremely recent promotion from childhood. 
 
 Lord John Trelleck examined the girl closely 
 from under the brim of his straw hat, and observed 
 that she looked extraordinarily handsome as she 
 stood before her ponderous middle-aged relative, 
 her straight brows drawn together in a frown 
 over her blue long-lashed eyes, and her brilliant 
 colouring enhanced by the angry flush. 
 
 "Got a temper, too," he said to himself, with 
 lazy amusement; and he tried presently to talk 
 to the little heiress of Welwysbere, and to draw 
 her out of her half-shy, half-sullen attitude of 
 watchful silence and embarrassment. 
 
 But he did not succeed very well, for at this 
 period of Philippa's existence men who happened 
 to be possessed of bald heads, or wrinkles, or grey 
 beards, did not count; they were merely part 
 of the furniture of life, so to speak, and it could 
 not matter particularly to any one, and certainly 
 
38 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 not to her, what they said, thought, or did; so 
 that she answered Lord John quite at random 
 and took no interest at all in his skilfully chosen 
 remarks. 
 
 It was nothing to Philippa that he was a mem- 
 ber of the Yacht Squadron, a friend of Royalty, 
 and altogether one of the most fashionable men 
 in London. Her attention was fixed upon Augusta 
 and she grudged that it should be distracted 
 even for a moment from the object of her childish 
 admiration. She had not seen Augusta for three 
 years — a long period in a young life : but a happy 
 compliment at meeting had aroused her enthusi- 
 astic gratitude: it was delightful, at sixteen, to be 
 hailed as grown up, and assured to her face that 
 she was attractive and beautiful to behold. 
 
 Philippa had arrived at a time of life when 
 most maidens, whether romantically or otherwise 
 inclined, form attachments, sometimes for the 
 strangest and most unlikely objects. She con- 
 ceived a sudden devotion for her cousin ; admired 
 her extravagant gowns, raved about her dimples, 
 and even imitated, for a time, and to her mother's 
 horror, the peculiar thick gabble in which Augusta 
 spoke. 
 
 Catherine, reflecting upon the list of Philippa's 
 past idols (which included the lad who blew the 
 bellows for the church organ, the village school- 
 mistress, and the miller's baby) , decided that this 
 new enthusiasm pleased her the least of all. She 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 39 
 
 tried, however, to hide the natural mortification 
 which must be felt by a parent who sees her 
 child admiring, and prepared to imitate, a model 
 felt to be unworthy, and consoled herself as best 
 she might with the remembrance of her daughter's 
 fickleness. 
 
 Nothing, however, had as yet occurred to 
 disillusion Philippa; and thus she was so happily 
 engaged in looking at and listening to Augusta 
 that she could not spare any attention at all for 
 Lord John, though she permitted herself an 
 occasional glance towards the tall bronzed soldier 
 who was talking to Mrs. Rait. 
 
 So this was Colonel Moore, the hero of Hector 
 and Lily's dreams; the brother of their poor, 
 beautiful young mother, who had died ten years 
 ago, when Lily was bom. 
 
 Philippa could not, after all, place him upon 
 the retired list of old fogies, to whom poor Lord 
 John so obviously, in her eyes, belonged. 
 
 David Moore was too upright, too vigorous, 
 and too good-looking to be treated with such 
 contumely. 
 
 He was very thin, and his lean brown face was 
 deeply lined; but that was due to the hardships 
 of war, she decided, and not to old age ; for there 
 was not a grey hair in his black moutache, nor in 
 the crisp, short locks cropped close to his head, yet 
 obstinately curling, nor in the marked black brows 
 which met across the bridge of his straight nose. 
 
40 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 When he laughed, which was rather often — a 
 low, amused, sincere laugh, which made her feel 
 inclined to join without knowing why — he showed 
 square, even, white teeth, and screwed up his 
 eyelids in what Philippa felt to be a very engaging 
 manner. When he was not laughing she liked 
 his face better still; and the frankness of his 
 expression and the softness of his handsome 
 orange-brown eyes pleased and attracted her 
 greatly. 
 
 The thought that he was a real live hero also 
 sent a pleasant thrill down Philippa's backbone; 
 for she was, after all, a very simple country 
 maiden and her enthusiasms were fresh and 
 wholesome. 
 
 Colonel Moore had no idea that those down- 
 cast eyes beneath Philippa's shady garden-hat 
 were observing him, none the less that they 
 seemed intent upon the lawn, or the tea-table, 
 or Lady Adelstane's lace dress; but he looked 
 not infrequently at her, for, indeed, her face was 
 sufficiently attractive to arrest the attention of 
 a man less susceptible than he to the influence of 
 beauty. 
 
 On a certain April morning many years ago 
 David Moore had gone primrosing in the Brides- 
 combe Woods with Philippa's mother, when she 
 had been hardly older than Philippa was now. 
 H« tried to trace a resemblance between his 
 shadowy recollections of that gentle companion 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 41 
 
 of a bygone day and the handsome, vigorous 
 maiden before him, but he found none. 
 
 "So that is Catherine's child," thought David, 
 and felt a little tenderly towards Philippa for her 
 mother's sake, and for the sake of that faint, 
 isolated memory of that mother's youth; and 
 perhaps also for her own, since the heart must 
 be hard indeed that is not touched and softened 
 by that first innocent loveliness of a woman- 
 child, not yet awakened to the knowledge of her 
 own charm or her own power. 
 
 George Chilcott walked home with his brother- 
 in-law, leaving Clara at the parsonage, where 
 she proposed that they should join her in calling 
 upon the vicar's wife, who, she argued, could not 
 be out at this late hour of the afternoon. 
 
 Since they declined her invitation with much 
 warmth and determination, nothing was left her 
 but to pay her visit alone, which she proceeded 
 to do, and no sooner were they freed from her 
 presence than a perceptible sense of ease and 
 relief stole over both men. 
 
 At the lych-gate of the churchyard George 
 hesitated, and said to his companion, *'I generally 
 go the short cut through this place and the fields 
 when I'm alone," and David nodded without a 
 word. 
 
 He had been there already since his arrival at 
 Bridescombe. 
 
42 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 The grass was very long, and the stone flags 
 of the old lychway through the churchyard much 
 overgrowTi. George walked in front, and David 
 followed, and both men stopped before a cleared 
 space, surrounded by a railing, wherein a plain 
 sarcophagus stood, half buried in the blossom of 
 carefully tended summer flowers. 
 
 The inscription to "Delia, beloved wife of 
 George Chilcott," was discernible, and the date 
 of a Christmas ten years past. 
 
 Close by there stood a plainer stone, whereon 
 the name of George's father. Admiral Hector 
 Chilcott, and his seventy-seven years of honoured, 
 blameless life were recorded; and above both 
 monuments towered the broken column which 
 marked the tomb of Sir Philip Adelstane, called 
 from a full and useful life in the prime of manhood ; 
 but George and David saw only that sacred 
 place where youth and love and beauty lay low 
 in Delia's grave. 
 
 Neither man spoke, nor did either so much as 
 look at the other; but when George walked on, 
 and David followed, both knew that that silent 
 pilgrimage expressed a bond of mutual sorrow 
 and brotherhood which could only have been 
 weakened in intensity by spoken words. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 "I MUST apologise for being obliged to receive 
 you in my bedroom, my dear Catherine," said old 
 Lady Sarah, "but I gathered from your note that 
 you wanted to talk to me alone, and this is the 
 only spot in the house where we may be sure 
 of a comfortable chat without interruption from 
 Augusta. When I arrive (and she has the bad 
 taste, if you will believe me, to give me a different 
 room in my old home every time I come) my 
 first care, like the governor of a besieged castle, 
 is to survey my fortifications, and decide how 
 best to strengthen them. You will perceive I 
 have had the fourposter moved in front of the 
 main entrance, so that even Augusta would find 
 it difficult to burst in upon me that way." 
 
 "She would indeed," said Catherine, observing 
 the carven pillars of the seventeenth-century 
 couch. 
 
 "And Tailer sits on^ guard in the dressing-room, 
 with my sweet little Mumbo Jumbo, who has 
 orders to bite every intruder except you, my love." 
 
 "You are very kind to make me the exception," 
 said Catherine, smiling. 
 
 43 
 
44 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 She had intended to consult Lady Sarah, and 
 pondered how best she could approach the subject 
 of Philippa; but Lady Sarah had a way of fore- 
 stalling confidences which was almost disconcert- 
 ing in its suddenness. 
 
 **Well, my love, so here is Philippa a woman, 
 and you in difificulties, as I always said you would 
 be, when you chose to bring up the sole hope of 
 the Adelstanes in the back kitchen of a labourer's 
 cottage/* 
 
 * * If I had but known she was to be the sole hope 
 of the Adelstanes," said Catherine, rather sadly, 
 * * I do not think I would have brought her up here 
 at all." 
 
 *'You might have known, my love, for I always 
 told you Augusta would never give Cecil an 
 heir. She has never been known to do anything 
 useful in her life that I am aware of. And so 
 Philippa is discontented and rebellious, and you 
 can do nothing with her and are at your wits* 
 end." 
 
 * ' It is not so bad as that, I hope," said Catherine, 
 colouring. 
 
 * 'Augusta makes it out quite as bad as that," 
 said Lady Sarah, rather maliciously. 
 
 "Augusta can know nothing — nothing," cried 
 Catherine warmly, **of anything between my 
 Phil and me. Why, she has hardly been here 
 since Philippa was twelve years old. I have not 
 breathed a word to her, and I am sure Phil 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 45 
 
 wouldn't. She may have her faults, but dis- 
 loyalty is not one of them." 
 
 "I am never sure of anything except that 
 where Augusta is concerned mischief will hatch 
 itself," said Lady Sarah cheerfully. *'I can assure 
 you that when I was foolish enough to invite her 
 to my nutshell in Curzon Street, because her own 
 house was unavailable for some cause or other, 
 she spent at least six hours a day during her 
 visit scribbling every detail of my household 
 concerns and my disreputable doings and sayings 
 to all her dearest friends. Bless me, how quickly 
 I turned my spare room into a lumber closet after I 
 found her out. I shall like to see her face, my 
 love, when I tell her that I have inquired into 
 your differences with Philippa, of which she was 
 kind enough to inform me, and that I find there 
 is not a word of truth in the report from begin- 
 ning to end." 
 
 "But there is a word of truth in it," said Cath- 
 erine, her cheeks flushed and her eyes filled with 
 tears; she drew her low chair closer to Lady 
 Sarah's fauteuil. 
 
 "Did I not tell you Augusta was a dangerous 
 friend?" said Lady Sarah nodding, "It is the 
 word of truth that makes her dangerous. There 
 is no detail of fact which she cannot interpret to 
 your disadvantage if she wishes to do so; and 
 yet, do you know, Catherine, astonishing as it 
 seems, I don't believe she means it." 
 
46 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 *'I am quite sure she does not," said Catherine. 
 **I blame myself often for being hard upon her in 
 my thoughts, though I am not so " 
 
 "Prejudiced?" suggested Lady Sarah. 
 
 **Well, perhaps, not so prejudiced as you are," 
 said Catherine, smiling apologetically. 
 
 ''Augusta has a kind of surface good nature 
 which imposes upon — people in general," said 
 Lady Sarah, nodding again. 
 
 "Philippa has taken one of her violent fancies 
 for Augusta," said Catherine, with a rather 
 melancholy laugh. "I dare say it will not last. 
 She is always wild about some one now. I don't 
 know what to make of it." 
 
 "Philippa is exactly like I was at her age, a 
 headstrong young woman, uncommonly fond of 
 her own way, and you have spoilt her excessively, 
 my love. Dear me, what battles I had with my 
 poor mother; but I never got the better of her, 
 I must own. She was a very determined person, 
 and not at all like you, my sweet Catherine. 
 As for Philippa, she will get over all these pre- 
 liminary adorations the first time she falls in love. 
 Pray Heaven it may be the right man. When I 
 fell in love it was head over ears, and I should 
 have married poor Philip whether he liked it or 
 not, I can assure you. Indeed, I have never been 
 so very certain that he did like it. However, 
 Philippa is not likely to marry any one against 
 his will, for she is not so clever as I was, my dear. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 47 
 
 and is in fact a thorough Adelstane at heart, in 
 spite of her resemblance to her poor old grand- 
 dame. It is certain that the Adelstane ice will 
 gradually freeze the warm blood of the Walderseas, 
 which flows in her veins and mine. And no one 
 has ever accused an Adelstane of cleverness so 
 far as I am aware. However, they are good- 
 looking and remarkably healthy; you can't 
 have everything," said Lady Sarah, indulgently. 
 
 ** Cecil is very wise in his way. I know no one 
 whose judgment I rely on more," said Catherine, 
 loyally. 
 
 ''Just so, and clever people are hardly ever 
 wise. That is why I am thankful that my descend- 
 ants turned out dull. Though it is very odd that 
 they should," said Lady Sarah, with a frisky 
 laugh. "Far better for me than if I had had the 
 misfortune to bring forth a genius, who would 
 probably have revenged himself for my maternal 
 devotion by revealing eventually to the world his 
 full impressions of the mistakes I made in his 
 education, with comments upon all my little 
 weaknesses thrown in." 
 
 '*0h, Lady Sarah!" 
 
 "Well, my love, I am supposing my genius 
 to be a writer; and what is an author, after all, 
 but an indiscreet person who can't keep his 
 thoughts to himself? If he were any other kind 
 of genius it would be even worse, for then his 
 friends would certainly set to work to write his 
 
48 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 biography, and scratch up or invent the most 
 unpleasant details to make it as spicy as possible. 
 But, however, as I was saying, my sons were 
 anything but geniuses. They had the good luck 
 to be as wise as they were dull, which is saying a 
 great deal. The wise man, you s6e, my love, does 
 not drink nor gamble, nor live beyond his income, 
 nor run away with his neighbour's wife; and the 
 clever man is by no means exempt from these 
 possibilities. I was more clever than wise, so I got 
 into not a few scrapes in my day. However, if 
 my wits led me into them, they always got me out 
 of them. I dare say Augusta has told you the 
 most shocking histories, my love." 
 
 "Do you think I would listen if she did?" 
 
 "Poor Cecil has had to listen, willy-nilly. He 
 has never had the same respect for me since he 
 married. Nor for any one else, so far as that goes. 
 She has stripped away every illusion he may 
 ever have cherished regarding the members of 
 his own family, or of hers, long since. But to 
 return to our muttons, or in this case our little 
 ewe lamb, without accusing her of dulness" — 
 Lady Sarah's bright eyes twinkled — "though she 
 is a trifle spoilt, she has not the kind of cleverness, 
 my love, which leads a girl into mischief, and so 
 you can be quite easy about her." 
 
 This assurance neither gratified nor convinced 
 Philippa's mother. 
 
 "And therefore," said Lady Sarah, very coolly, 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 49 
 
 **I am much inclined, Catherine, to advise you to 
 give the child her way. Let her accept this invita- 
 tion, and go up to town with Augusta for a few 
 weeks." 
 
 ''With Augusta! You advise me to confide 
 my child to her, after " 
 
 "After all the abuse I have been showering 
 upon her, you would like to say? But, my dear 
 Catherine, as you remarked just now, I am per- 
 haps prejudiced against Cecil's wife," said Lady 
 Sarah, adroitly. 
 
 "One may be unprejudiced, and yet unable to 
 respect Augusta's methods," said Catherine, almost 
 angrily, "and my Philippa — who is as open as the 
 day — how could she " 
 
 "But that is one of my principal reasons, my 
 love. Mothers are so very short-sighted. If you 
 want our beloved Philippa to find out your merits, 
 let her toddle off under Augusta's care. An ounce 
 of experience is worth a pound of theory. It will 
 do her no harm to be let out of leading strings, 
 for, as I tell you, she is an Adelstane at heart, 
 and she will bore Augusta to death in a week. 
 A girl of that age, full of high-flown illusions, 
 embarrasses herself and everybody else," said 
 Lady Sarah, chuckling. "She will be relegu^e to 
 the back drawing-room in a day or two, if I'm 
 not mistaken, and be glad enough to come home, 
 and to make her d^hut next year, under your 
 wing, with my assistance; though Augusta very 
 
60 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 kindly hints to me that I am becoming a trifle 
 superannuated. ' ' 
 
 "I had always hoped you would help me; but 
 must it be next year?" said Catherine, dismally. 
 * * She is only sixteen." 
 
 "When I was her age," said Lady Sarah, rather 
 contemptuously, "I had refused an excellent offer 
 of marriage already, and though my godmother 
 left me a fortune I was no such heiress as Philippa 
 will be. I fell in love only six months after with 
 Philip Adelstane and married him on the spot. 
 My grandmother. Lady Jane Waldersea, was 
 married at fifteen, had twelve children, and lived 
 to be a hundred years old. I do not agree at all 
 with these namby-pamby modem notions of pro- 
 longing a girl's childhood indefinitely. Philippa 
 is none of your nervous anaemic blue-stockings, 
 grown roimd-shouldered and short-sighted with 
 poring over her lessons." 
 
 * * No , indeed , ' ' said Catherine . * * My only fear is 
 that I have thought, if anything, too much of her 
 health and too little of her education. But she 
 dislikes books, has no taste for drawing, and no 
 ear for music. What was I to do ? " 
 
 "Why must every female creature be bound to 
 thump a pianoforte? In my opinion, if women 
 want to get on in life the less they learn the 
 better. A learned woman is like Cain, every man's 
 hand is against her," said Lady Sarah, chuckling. 
 "Philippa can read and write, and speak English 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 51 
 
 like a lady, and French like an Englishwoman. 
 She can play games and ride straight to hounds, 
 and has a good disposition. She is a fine strapping, 
 healthy creature, formed by nature to be the 
 mother of fine, healthy, beautiful children. What 
 more do you want? What more need any man 
 ask for, I should like to know? She ought to come 
 out next year and marry in her first season, as I did. 
 Pray, am I one penny the worse for it? And if this 
 preliminary canter makes her less farouche or, if 
 you will excuse me, my sweet Catherine, knocks 
 a little of the family priggishness out of her, we 
 shall have every reason to be thankful to Augusta." 
 
 ''And I said I would be guided by you," said 
 Catherine despairingly. "Oh, Lady Sarah, do — 
 do be serious. Think that I have only Philippa 
 in the world." 
 
 "And how much longer do you expect to keep 
 her all to yourself, pray?" 
 
 "At least till she marries, and I need not lose 
 her altogether then." 
 
 "To be sure. Yes, yes. I can see the son-in-law 
 you have in your mind's eye," said Lady Sarah 
 derisively. "Not too old, and not too young. 
 A serious, careful person to whom you can confide 
 your opinion of the careful treatment her health 
 and disposition require, and who can be trusted 
 to look after her like any old woman, and see that 
 she does not get her feet wet in summer, or leave 
 off her warm vests in winter. Mothers are perfect 
 
52 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 fools, my dear Catherine. Philippa will live her 
 own life, and buy her own experience as dearly 
 as possible, and her husband will do just what 
 she chooses, and will never discuss her with any 
 one, least of all with her mamma. Bless me, 
 my love, how warm it is! I believe I shall have 
 to go downstairs and sit imder the trees on the 
 lawn. Augusta purposely chose me a room with a 
 western aspect (a thing I can't bear) to force me 
 out of it every afternoon." 
 
 Catherine was obliged to accept this somewhat 
 decisive hint that her interview with Lady Sarah 
 was at an end. She had wished for advice and 
 had received it, and found it as unpalatable as 
 advice must always be when it clashes with the 
 seeker's own inclinations. 
 
 But there was no one else to whom she felt 
 inclined to turn for counsel. George Chilcott, it is 
 true, managed her business affairs, and gave 
 her sage and excellent directions concerning 
 them, but she could never speak to him from her 
 heart. He was but a kind, honest dullard, whose 
 converse was strictly limited to what he would 
 have termed the practical realities of existence. 
 Of the life of the spirit, the thoughts and ideas 
 which survive through the ages whilst men and 
 matter alike perish, he knew and cared nothing 
 at all. The things he could see were real to him, 
 the rest did not exist. He went to church regu- 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 53 
 
 larly, and tried to keep his reverent attention 
 fixed on words which bored him very much, 
 though he would have died sooner than admit 
 this evien to himself; and he did his duty to the 
 best of his ability as a brave, clean, honest man, 
 imbued with the best English public school and 
 army traditions. Catherine found him more 
 practical and better informed on gardening 
 and farming subjects than Sir Cecil, but there 
 her companionship with him ended. There was 
 no one — there had never been any one — to whom 
 she had spoken her inmost thoughts. Not Philippa 
 — whom she loved best in the world, for whom 
 she would have laid down her life without a sigh. 
 In the midst of her idolatry for her only child, 
 Catherine had wistfully recognised the absence 
 of the higher and finer perceptions in Philippa. 
 Sometimes she tried to persuade herself that these 
 would develop with advancing age ; but memories 
 of her own childhood secretly nullified the hope. 
 
 It needed not the satirical comments of Lady 
 Sarah to show her that her child was modelled 
 upon the Adelstane type — ^when Sir Cecil, em- 
 bodiment of all that was best in the race, was 
 constantly before her eyes. Handsome and dis- 
 tinguished in feature, tall and dignified in person, 
 with a manner perfectly well bred, courteous, and 
 reserved — he had grown to resemble exactly, in 
 the eyes of the world, his late uncle, Sir Philip. 
 
 But Lady Sarah never allowed this, and 
 
64 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 Catherine was passionately grateful to her for 
 her obstinacy in the matter. 
 
 * * So is a clay model like a marble statue. Philip 
 was made of finer stuff," said the old lady. 
 
 Catherine looked back through the mist of 
 years to the noble figure which had dominated the 
 imagination of her girlhood, and with all her 
 might clung to her early ideal, and agreed with 
 Lady Sarah, conquering that sad clearness of 
 vision which creeps upon middle-age and destroys 
 so many loved illusions. 
 
 When Philippa was bom, Catherine looked no 
 less eagerly into the future, and beheld already 
 in her dreams the companion into which that 
 human chrysalis would develop. She fancied 
 herself singing songs and telling stories to an 
 eager childish listener, and felt already little arms 
 about her neck, and saw beautiful eyes looking 
 intelligently into hers with answering fondness 
 and understanding. But she did not realise that 
 the little being of whom she thought was the 
 ghost of her own childhood, and not the sub- 
 stantial living Philippa who lay sleeping in her 
 cot; in whom the germs of the Adelstane char- 
 acter were already thriving healthily, and who 
 would be neither a dreamer nor a sentimentalist, 
 as Catherine had been, nor endowed with a spark 
 of her mother's gentle humour. 
 
 Catherine, confounding imagination with reality, 
 had thus let Philippa too soon into the temple 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 55 
 
 of her early and sacred memories. She had since 
 had many a pained vision of the child flitting 
 carelessly through that holy place, overthrowing 
 idols, peering into dim recesses, and setting 
 the door open for the sunlight of common sense 
 to stream in and extinguish the shadowy twilight 
 of fancy. Philippa dispersed all Catherine's 
 tender expectations with light-hearted uncon- 
 sciousness, being naturally altogether unaware of 
 that imaginary self of hers — that little dream- 
 child with serious face and pathetic eyes, who 
 never was and never could be Philippa Adelstane. 
 
 Old Miss Dulcinea was a kind creature, gentle 
 if rather foolish of disposition, but Catherine had 
 long since discovered that the confidences of her 
 friends formed the staple theme of Miss Dulcinea's 
 conversation with any one who cared to listen; 
 nor did they lose in the telling, for the kind old 
 lady's loving embroideries of speech decorated, 
 so to speak, the solid hours of many a tete-h-tete 
 in shabby old drawing-rooms or stuffy cottage 
 parlours, brightening dull lives, and not, perhaps, 
 doing much harm to any one. 
 
 The knowledge of Miss Chilcott*s weakness 
 weighed upon Catherine, however, with a heavi- 
 ness that might appear disproportionate save to 
 those who have endured a similar minor trial of 
 life. She was aware that, through this incessant 
 leakage in her household, her most intimate 
 concerns and smallest doings must needs be 
 
66 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 babbled about an entire neighbourhood; but 
 reproaches, though they wounded poor Miss 
 Dulcinea's gentle heart, could not cure her; and 
 Catherine could only retire into herself, guard 
 her conversation, and be careful never to comment 
 upon Philippa's shortcomings nor reprove her in 
 Miss Dulcinea's presence; hiding the disappoint- 
 ment and anxiety which her child almost daily 
 caused her as best she could. She learnt to com- 
 mune with her own heart indeed, but to be still — 
 how infinitely more difficult was that! To wait 
 patiently for developments — to trust God and 
 live in the present, instead of fretting over the 
 possible troubles of an unknown future. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 In these early days of a backward June, Nature 
 had withheld the fulfilment of her yearly promise, 
 only to pour it out the more lavishly at last. 
 
 The homestead at Shepherd's Rest was embow- 
 ered in blossom. 
 
 The scented honeysuckle hung trails of yellow 
 trumpets over the west comer of the porch; the 
 east was heavily curtained by the Montana 
 clematis, studded with white stars. 
 
 The open window of Catherine's bedroom was 
 framed with early roses — the faint coppery hue of 
 the Ideal soaring ever upward as though seeking 
 to bear its burden of flower as near heaven as 
 possible; and the clusters of the little innocent- 
 faced Banksia, content to clothe itself in beauty 
 from stem to point. 
 
 A sturdy wistaria embraced the north wall, 
 flung its purple bunches over the roof, and 
 dangled them around the eaves; no ruthless 
 gardener was here permitted to prune its natural 
 luxuriance or lop its graceful growth. 
 
 On the edge of the little wood which sheltered 
 the garden from the east, the laburnum swung 
 
 57 
 
58 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 golden drops in the light summer wind over the 
 tall foxgloves; above the laburnum rose the 
 dark fir-trees, but spring had tipped the myriad 
 points of their sombre foliage with delicate new 
 pale green. 
 
 In the open meadows and orchard lands which 
 lay to the west the hedges were white with may, 
 and the air was filled with the fragrance of 
 it; the red Devon cattle, motionless and drowsy, 
 dropped their heads among the seeding grasses; 
 the buttercups glowed in the simshine, and the 
 wild hyacinths made the shadows yet more purple 
 beneath the branching apple-trees. 
 
 Gaily the tulips and the painted pansies bloomed 
 in the little garden, where the turquoise blue of a 
 cloudless sky was reflected in whole forests of 
 forget-me-not, springing round the stems of the 
 standard rose trees. 
 
 The oak parlour of the cottage, cool, rose- 
 scented, was shaded by outside blinds from the 
 blinding sunshine. 
 
 Here the hands of David and Catherine met 
 and clasped; they looked curiously at each other 
 across the experience of half a lifetime. 
 
 The first thought of each was that the other had 
 changed very greatly. Catherine perceived that 
 the merry careless boy had developed into a 
 strong and splendid manhood. 
 
 Colonel Moore was obviously fitted by nature 
 to be a leader of men; tall and powerful of build. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 59 
 
 alert and steady of glance, with the clear eyes that 
 bore witness to a temperate life, as his lean mus- 
 ctdar figure argued an active one. 
 
 "He is quick, and generous and sympathetic as 
 Delia,** thought Catherine, and her heart beat 
 pleasantly with quickened interest. 
 
 David saw only the soft and gentle face of a 
 woman whose youth was past; brown hair with 
 silver threads in it, parted above a low, broad 
 brow; a sweet mouth rather humorous, and 
 hazel eyes rather wistful. The quiet, grey-clad 
 figure of a woman whose best days of love and 
 life had departed — whilst his were yet to come; 
 the dearest friend of his dead sister's bright 
 youth; the widow of Sir Philip Adelstane — a 
 personage he had once regarded with awe — and 
 the mother of Philippa. 
 
 But, though their thoughts were many, their 
 greetings were commonplace. 
 
 "So we meet again." 
 
 "How good of you to come so soon." 
 
 "I haven't seen you, Catherine, since you were — 
 well — about the age your pretty daughter is now." 
 
 "No," said Catherine gently. "I was always 
 sorry you did not come down here when you 
 were last in England." 
 
 "I spent my leave in London with — Delia. 
 She was never fond of the country." 
 
 "No, never. But she wished George to live 
 here." 
 
60 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 "Because she knew his heart was in his home. 
 It was a pity George gave up the service when 
 she died; but I suppose his duty lay here." 
 
 **0h, David, it is the life he is best fitted for," 
 said Catherine. "When they used to come down 
 here for a few days from town, it was pitiful to see 
 how his heart was set on the place; he used to 
 ramp and rage like an angry lion, Delia told me, 
 over his mother's mismanagement. And yet he 
 wouldn't hear of Delia's giving up London and 
 coming here altogether." 
 
 "No, no, he couldn't go back on his word like 
 that," said David. "Delia had always stipu- 
 lated for London; what could she have done 
 down here? And, after all, they were very happy 
 while it lasted — ^happier than most couples. The 
 pity of it is that it should have lasted so short a 
 time. Hardly seven years." 
 
 Catherine thought of her own happiness, which 
 had lasted a shorter time yet, and sighed. 
 
 "Are you down there much?" said David 
 abruptly. 
 
 He moved restlessly about the little oak-pan- 
 elled room, taking two chairs from their proper 
 places and resting in neither. His dark head 
 almost touched the heavy centre beam which 
 crossed the parlour. 
 
 "Not very much," said Catherine. Then, as 
 though excusing herself: "It is not far as the 
 crow flies, but it's a steep climb, and I am always 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 61 
 
 busy. Phil runs up and down a good deal, and 
 little Lily finds her way up here when she is 
 allowed, which, to be sure, is not very often/* 
 
 "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. 
 I don't think old Mrs. Chilcott's influence is good 
 for little Lily," said David, and he settled himself 
 at last, with an air of relief, in an arm-chair, and 
 looked expectantly at Catherine. There was an 
 eager certainty of sympathy in his sunshiny, 
 orange-brown eyes that reminded her sadly, 
 yet pleasurably, of her lost beloved friend; so 
 that she could not feel him to be a stranger, and 
 she prepared herself unconsciously to give him 
 all the sympathy he needed. 
 
 A whole-hearted, spontaneous unreserve with 
 those whom she loved or trusted, or with whom 
 she found herself in sympathy, had been one of 
 Delia's most charming characteristics. The in- 
 stinctive choice of a confidante counts for much 
 with such natures, and Delia had not often been 
 betrayed; David perhaps never, though his was 
 the simpler nature, the greater heart, of the two. 
 
 **She wanted George to come back, because 
 she knew he would find his only consolation 
 when she was gone in Bridescombe," he said. 
 "But she hadn't time to think of everything '* 
 
 "Ah, she was so quick — so quick of thought; 
 she had time," Catherine just breathed the words, 
 with a little shake of her head. 
 
 "You wrote to me — it was very good of you — 
 
62 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 and told me all poor old George couldn't say,** 
 he responded instantly, leaning forward. **But 
 tell me now again, by word of mouth; one can 
 say so much more than in a letter." 
 
 "There w^ere but three days after Lily was 
 bom," said Catherine. "But when she knew 
 she had to go — she was as brave as " 
 
 "As Delia would be," he said proudly, with the 
 unshed tears glittering in the brown eyes fixed on 
 Catherine's moved face. 
 
 "In her quick way she made up her mind that 
 little Lily would be herself over again, and had 
 no fears for leaving her; she thought more of 
 Hector, whom she worshipped. 'My boy will 
 be at school,' she said, 'and his Granny won't 
 have much of a chance to bully him, and he's not 
 the sort to care if she did. But she won't, he's 
 too like George. And my daughter' — I can hear 
 her laugh now — 'will be able to hold her own. 
 George could never bear to live in London alone, 
 and the country will be better for the children. 
 They must go back.' She thought, too, that her 
 death and having her grandchildren all to herself 
 would soften old Mrs. Chilcott." 
 
 "Well, it hasn't," said David shortly. "And 
 the other woman, Clara, is intolerable. Between 
 them they make the child's life a burden to her." 
 
 "Is it so bad as that?" said Catherine, with 
 startled eyes. "Oh, surely no." 
 
 "Yes, it is as bad as that." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 63 
 
 ''And George hasn't found it out?" 
 
 David's glance rested on her with an expres- 
 sion of mingled scorn, affection, and amusement. 
 "George!'* he said. 
 
 "I know she is a quiet little thing," said Cath- 
 erine humbly, "but many children are quiet. I 
 have always thought little Lily just the child — I 
 should have liked. She follows me about with 
 her great black eyes questioning; always gentle 
 and serious." 
 
 "I should like to take her away," said David, 
 half angrily. "She has no business to be serious 
 at ten years old." 
 
 "Oh, David," said Catherine, almost tearfully, 
 "is it possible that you in a few days have found 
 out that Delia's little girl is unhappy; and that 
 I, a woman and a mother too, have been so 
 selfish, so thoughtless as not to find it out?" 
 
 "Oh, well, it is natural you should be absorbed 
 in your own child," he said apologetically. "And 
 besides, you haven't stayed in the house with 
 her. I have, even if only for a few days." 
 
 "I will confess the truth," said Catherine, and 
 her lip trembled. "I do avoid going to Brides- 
 combe. I — I — have said nothing about it to any- 
 one." 
 
 "Much better speak out," said David, imcere- 
 moniously. 
 
 "But each time I go there I vow to myself it 
 shall be the last." 
 
64 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 "That old woman's tongue would make anyone 
 feel the same," said David, grimly, "but I sha*n't 
 leave till I've got the better of her so far as my 
 little Lily is concerned. I don't see, though, how 
 anything she says can affect you.** 
 
 "If I were not foolish and weak, I suppose it 
 would not," said Catherine, vehemently accusing 
 herself. "But I will own to you, David, that I 
 come back after an interview with her shaking 
 in every limb. I can't sleep at night for thinking 
 of what she said and how she said it. The bad 
 motives she imputes to every one. The — the 
 way she scoffs at the things one thought one was 
 doing of wise and sensible." Catherine's English 
 was apt, in moments of excitement, to recur to 
 the translations of her Anglo-French childhoood. 
 "She makes one's peaceful, busy life seem some- 
 how only futile and silly, and one loses confidence 
 in oneself and one's plans. Perhaps you, being a 
 man, can hardly understand such weakness, 
 and yet I think you can, and do — for you are very 
 like Delia. Oh, David, I miss her still, after all 
 these years, for I never had a friend before, and I 
 shall never have one again." 
 
 A tear fell on to Catherine's little slender hands, 
 clasped in the lap of her grey gown. She wore 
 always grey or black, with soft blendings of white, 
 very dainty and spotless, and perhaps the sim- 
 plicity of her gowns helped to keep some shadow 
 of her lost youth about her still. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 65 
 
 Hers was not a face that had ever been beautiful, 
 save for a pair of fine hazel eyes, and a certain 
 purity of colouring. It was not beautiful now, 
 but the serene and healthful life she had led in 
 the mild air of the Devon hills had stolen but 
 little of her early freshness of tint, though the 
 face was paler, and the regard perhaps less bright. 
 
 The eyes of middle-age are often but ghosts of 
 their former selves; robbed of their brilliance, 
 of their curved and pointed length of lashes, of 
 their clear blue whites, and their setting of smooth 
 brow and glowing cheek ; the little windows of the 
 soul grow dimmer with the passing of the years. 
 But at five and thirty Catherine's hazel eyes were 
 yet beautiful enough, and the soul looked forth 
 from them with the almost childish gentleness 
 and wistfulness that David remembered in the 
 charming maiden who had gone primrosing with 
 him on that far-off April day. 
 
 **You have a friend in. me, now and always. I 
 think you know that," he answered her, as im- 
 pulsively as Delia herself would have spoken and 
 with as little self-consciousness. ''And if you 
 miss Delia, what about me? You see," he went on 
 unsteadily, "there were only us two, and when 
 she went — I knew there wasn't a soul on earth 
 who really cared what became of me. I don't 
 mean I haven't plenty of friends, but that's not 
 the same thing. One's success or failure, one's 
 sickness or one's health, isn't a matter of life or 
 
66 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 death to one*s friends, however devoted they are. 
 There wasn't anything left for me — but work." 
 
 "You have done so splendidly," cried Catherine. 
 **0h, David, often and often I have thought— 
 if Delia could only have heard this — if she could 
 only have read that " 
 
 "Aye, so have I," said David, simply enough. 
 "But there it is. I'd nobody to telegraph my 
 good news to; nobody whose pleasure in the show 
 was the real thing one cared most about. But it's 
 no use thinking of that," he went on more cheer- 
 fully. "I suppose there are any amount of old 
 people, and not a few middle-aged ones, who 
 know the sadness of a success when there's no 
 one left to be pleased about it." 
 
 Catherine looked into her past, and found no 
 one there to whom her success or failure had 
 ever been a matter of life or death. But her 
 sympathy was none the less with David, for she 
 knew his sister had idolised him beyond every 
 one and everything in the world. 
 
 "That's the worst of putting all one's eggs in 
 one basket," he said, trying to laugh. "Ah, 
 Catherine, you don't know what the blank of 
 mail-day was to me, for years after Delia died. 
 I don't believe she ever missed a mail, God bless 
 her. Fellows who have lived ten years out of 
 England at a stretch know what that means." 
 
 "Did the thought of her children comfort you 
 a little?" 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 67 
 
 **I can't say it did," he returned frankly. 
 "If anything, I felt a grudge against the poor 
 atom who had been the innocent cause of — but 
 now I've seen her, a little living reminder of Delia, 
 of course it's different. Coming home has brought 
 it all back, though, worse than I thought; and 
 especially seeing poor George so miserable." 
 
 "He has never got over it," said Catherine, 
 sympathetically. 
 
 "It isn't that," he said briefly. 
 
 She waited. 
 
 "Catherine, there's only one thing for George 
 to do — he ought to marry again." 
 
 "Fow say that!" 
 
 * * I am the only person who can say it, because 
 I'm the only person who sees things as Delia 
 would have seen them. George knows that." 
 
 "I can't help feeling — I am sure he would feel — 
 that it would be unfaithful," she faltered. 
 
 "The dead cannot share our lives with us, how- 
 ever dear their memories are," said David. "One 
 would become morbid and cowardly if one didn't 
 fight one's sorrow and put it in the background 
 of work and existence." He stopped short, for 
 the wistful questioning in poor Catherine's eyes 
 reminded him that she, too, was in something 
 of the same position as George. He leant forward 
 and took her hand gently. "It is very different 
 for you. A woman's sorrow is a very sacred and 
 beautiful thing," he said, with emotion. "But 
 
68 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 George is a man, and has to live a man's life and 
 do a man's work." 
 
 He released the little soft hand, and rose from 
 his chair, once more restlessly pacing the low room. 
 
 "I can see what sort of an existence George 
 has been leading for some years past. He came 
 back listless and broken-hearted, and let his 
 mother and sister say and do what they would. 
 Old Aunt Lydia rules the house with a rod of 
 iron, and Clara is her blind and stupid mouth- 
 piece. If the child shows a flash of her mother's 
 spirit, she is snubbed, and whatever she does or 
 does not do she is nagged at from morning till 
 night by Clara, who has kindly undertaken her 
 education, and imagines herself the most devoted 
 aunt in the world." 
 
 ''Have you said anything?'* 
 
 "I am too wise to waste my words. In their 
 eyes, you know, I am still the presumptuous 
 young man who ventured into the army when 
 he ought to have looked for a three-legged stool 
 in an office. I shall be a poor relation in the esti- 
 mation of Aunt Lydia to the end of the chapter, 
 just as George will always be a fashionable young 
 Guardsman." 
 
 Catherine could not help a little low laugh. 
 
 ''That is it, exactly. So am I a poor relation, 
 though of course it is a hundred times more 
 ridiculous in your case," she said, with her cus- 
 tomary and quite unaffected humility. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 69 
 
 "I don't see that." 
 
 "You don't see yourself," said Catherine, 
 smiling. "But I am sure Aunt Lydia must be 
 proud of you in her heart. I wish you had heard 
 her boasting of you during the war to poor Mrs. 
 Bell, whose son was a humble trooper in the 
 yeomanry. She laid down the law so about the 
 latest victories, and contradicted the newspaper 
 accounts so flatly, that we thought she must be 
 really quoting your letters." 
 
 "I never wrote to her from South Africa but 
 once," said David, grimly, "to thank her for the 
 one letter she wrote me." 
 
 "When you got your V.C?" 
 
 "No, no. When I was taken prisoner," said 
 David, smiling. "She wrote to tell me how very 
 unlucky it was, and how they all felt for my 
 mortification, and how much she hoped I had not 
 been too severely blamed by the authorities." 
 
 "Why," cried Catherine, indignantly, "the 
 papers were full of praise — you were dangerously 
 wounded — ^you ' ' 
 
 "Oh, that was all right," said David. "I 
 wrote from hospital, and thanked her kindly, 
 and said I hoped I might live it down in time. 
 The composition of that letter helped me and 
 my friend Pollock — who lost his leg, poor chap, 
 in the same action — through a weary time. You 
 see, condolences are more in Aunt Lydia's line 
 than congratulations. When I inherited my old 
 
70 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 uncle's little fortune, she was as mum as a stock- 
 fish; and I remember poor Delia writing that 
 neither Aunt Lydia nor Clara could rest at night 
 for anxiety lest my unexpected good luck should 
 turn my head.'* 
 
 "But how glad Delia was. She was always 
 saying, ' Now David can exchange into the cavalry ; 
 now he can keep polo ponies; now he can rise as 
 high as he will — if only he doesn't get married ' — 
 and you didn't get married," said Catherine. 
 
 "No, no, I am not a marrying man," said David, 
 colouring and laughing. "It is George who ought 
 to find a wife. I want to get him to come up to 
 town with me, directly I've found rooms and got 
 into harness at the War Office. Once there, it 
 will be easy enough. There must be plenty of 
 pretty young ladies about, and George knows 
 lots of people, though I don't." 
 
 Catherine smiled; but, quick as he was, David 
 did not divine the cause of her smile. 
 
 "Are you sure that for little Lily it would not 
 be jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire? 
 Why should an unknown stepmother be better 
 for her than Clara?" 
 
 "Anybody would be better than Clara," said 
 David, decidedly, "anybody young and nice and 
 sympathetic." 
 
 "Suppose he caught a tartar?" 
 
 "That would be unfortunate, certainly." 
 
 "You know George does rather lend himself 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 71 
 
 to — I don't mean he isn't manly enough," said 
 Catherine, hesitating, "but — Delia did just what 
 she liked with him." 
 
 "Oh, I know he's one of those good-natured 
 fellows who are always led by the nose by some 
 woman or other," said David. "That's why it's 
 so obvious he ought to marry. It's more natural 
 that a wife should boss him than his mamma and 
 sister; and then they could be off to Cheltenham 
 or Bath and leave him in peace. That was to have 
 been the programme eventually if poor Delia had 
 lived. And perhaps then, Catherine," his brown 
 eyes softened, "they would spare little Lily to 
 me now and then. ' * She's the only creature in the 
 world who seems to me a little bit like Delia. 
 I don't feel drawn to Hector in the same way, 
 though he's a fine lad. I went to see him at Eton." 
 
 "He and Philippa are just of an age." 
 
 "A boy is one thing and a girl is another. Phil- 
 ippa is ten years older than that young cub for all 
 practical purposes." 
 
 "Did you think her pretty?" asked Catherine, 
 timidly. 
 
 "Pretty! I have seen nothing half so beautiful 
 for many a long day." 
 
 Catherine's heart warmed with this unaccus- 
 tomed enthusiasm. 
 
 "It must be very dull for her in this out-of-the 
 way place, though," said David. "How much 
 longer are you going to keep her mewed up here?" 
 
72 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 **Why, that is the question," said Catherine, 
 and she tried to laugh, but her eyes grew misty. 
 *'She thinks it very hard she should be mewed 
 up here at all." 
 
 *'So it is. She ought to see something of the 
 world, and it's high time she began. It's not fair 
 to a pretty girl to let her grow rustic and awkward 
 by keeping her out of every one's way." 
 
 ** Augusta wants to take her to London when 
 she returns." 
 
 "An excellent plan." 
 
 **But I'm not sure that I care to trust her with 
 Augusta," said Catherine, uneasily. 
 
 "Why, what harm could come to her in Lady 
 Adelstane's hands ? She's a good-natured creature, 
 surely? And Cecil Adelstane is a kind of pillar 
 of the British Constitution." 
 
 "I know I'm foolish — but I — I never have been 
 parted from her yet," said Catherine, wistfully. 
 "She's all I've got." 
 
 "I see," said David, gently. "Well, but why 
 not go up to town with her yourself?" 
 
 She hesitated and stammered. How could 
 she tell David that it was Philippa who did not 
 wish her mother to come? 
 
 Catherine, looking at Delia's brother, thought 
 that here was the friend she had unconsciously 
 sought, full of sympathy and understanding and 
 gentleness. She felt a great longing to confide in 
 David. But Philippa was sacred — she could not 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 73 
 
 speak of her. She thought to herself, however, 
 that if David were really like Delia he would 
 understand her trouble without words, so far as a 
 man could understand ; she made this reservation 
 timidly, as one whose experience of mankind had 
 been very limited. 
 
 "Of course I would prefer to take her myself 
 to London," she faltered, "but " 
 
 "I expect you feel you've dropped out of it all — 
 living here in seclusion for so many years," he 
 said kindly. 
 
 "It's not that altogether. I never was in it," 
 said Catherine, very honestly. "I went where 
 they took me, of course — my husband and Lady 
 Sarah. But it was among their friends and ac- 
 quaintances; they never really became mine. 
 If I had been" — she smiled — "as beautiful as a 
 houri, as witty as a geisha, and as faultless as an 
 angel, I doubt if they would ever have been 
 interested in me." 
 
 "Wouldn't they!" said David, laughing, "that 
 is — I am not sure about the angel!" 
 
 "No — for there was something in me that 
 wouldn't let me be interested in them. Interest 
 must be mutual. I always longed to creep away 
 into a comer. I suppose it is some defect in my 
 constitution. I think I have always liked things 
 better than people. Things real or abstract. 
 Work and dreaming and books and out-of-doors 
 always pleased me best. I always longed for a 
 
74 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 little life of my own — and here I am, you see, 
 living it." 
 
 *'But that is rather hard on Philippa.'* 
 
 "Yes," said Catherine, blankly, "I suppose it is 
 — rather hard on Philippa." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "Of course, I know I must make an effort one 
 day to take her out in London — however unsuited 
 I am," said Catherine, almost faintly. "But 
 since she is only sixteen, and such a baby — such 
 a baby — for her age." 
 
 "She looks twenty; and it won't be any easier 
 to begin a year or two hence than it is now," said 
 David, drily. 
 
 "What would you advise me to do?" said 
 Catherine, suddenly. 
 
 He considered. 
 
 "Perhaps it is not fair to ask you to take the 
 responsibility of advising me," she faltered. 
 
 He looked at her in amused surprise. 
 
 "I don't mind accepting the responsibility. A 
 man can only give the best advice in his power. 
 I think you ought to let your daughter go. Why 
 should she suffer because you have chosen to live in 
 seclusion all these years ? No doubt the Adelstanes 
 can give her many advantages ; they know every- 
 body — and are, after all, her nearest relations. But 
 of course if there is any reason why you should not 
 think it advisable to trust her to Lady Adelstane — 
 it would be far better to take her yourself." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 75 
 
 Catherine hesitated. '*No, there is nothing — I 
 can't say there is anything. Augusta is perhaps — 
 not a very sincere person." 
 
 "Women seldom are very sincere, I suppose," 
 said David, calmly. 
 
 Catherine did not agree with him, but she was 
 not in the habit of contradicting the superior sex, 
 and he took her meek silence for consent. 
 
 "I think you take it rather seriously," he said, 
 cheerfully. "After all, if you feel it so much as 
 all that, it would certainly be best to go up with 
 her yourself." 
 
 "I would like to," said Catherine, "but—" 
 she faltered again. She could not tell David that 
 in Philippa's eyes all the charm of the expedition 
 would vanish if her mother accompanied her; 
 that the child had grown restless and discontented 
 under her perpetual tender supervision. 
 
 But as she hesitated Philippa herself opened 
 the door of the parlour, and innocently saved 
 Catherine all further trouble of explanation. Her 
 handsome face was flushed and heated, and her 
 bright hair ruffled, as usual, about her ears. She 
 wore a plain blue linen frock, which defined her 
 tall, full, slender figure, and fell just below her 
 ankles in rather scanty folds. 
 
 She looked so fair and noble, with her straight 
 features and brilliant colouring, all lit up, as it 
 were, with sunshine and youth and gladness, 
 that Catherine stole a glance at David, full of 
 
76 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 pride and pleasure, wondering whether he too 
 would be affected by the beauty of this radiant 
 vision. 
 
 With the quickness of childhood, Philippa de- 
 tected her mother's embarassment, and divined 
 the cause. 
 
 "You have been asking Cousin David's advice, 
 mamma," she said eagerly. "Oh, Cousin David, 
 do, do beg her not to spoil all my fun by coming 
 up to London, and stopping in a poky lodging 
 or a horrid hotel, just to keep an eye on me. 
 You know she's far happier here, and I do so long 
 to try just for once in a way what it would be 
 like to go and pay a visit all by myself, like any 
 other girl, and to stay with dear, dear, kind 
 Cousin Augusta." 
 
 Catherine looked anxiously at David to see how 
 he would take this revelation, to her so tragic, of 
 Philippa's wish to leave her; but she perceived 
 only laughter and admiration in his brown eyes. 
 
 Colonel Moore thought it the most natural thing 
 in the world that a pretty girl should pine for a 
 little freedom and pleasure, and a taste of the 
 gaieties suitable to her age. 
 
 Catherine realised instantly with a curious 
 pang of mingled surprise, pain, and amusement 
 that, though David was of her own generation, he 
 was nevertheless both by sympathy and instinct 
 not on her side but Philippa's in this matter. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 Though Lady Sarah Adelstane had called her 
 grandson Cecil a wise man, and though he was 
 undoubtedly a rich one, he was nevertheless 
 living beyond his income ; and the fact made him 
 irritable in the daytime and wakeful at night. 
 
 Like many men who have married women 
 with fortunes, he personally benefited very little 
 from his wife's wealth, whilst she made it a per- 
 petual excuse for getting everything she wanted. 
 
 Since he had entered upon his inheritance of 
 his uncle's fortune, Welwysbere Abbey had been 
 put into perfect order and repair; modem drainage 
 and electric lighting had been installed, and 
 elaborate new stabling had been erected. Reflect- 
 ing upon the largeness of his wife's income, he had 
 paid off every mortgage upon the property out 
 of his own capital, rebuilt farms and cottages, 
 and bought coveted adjacent land. 
 
 All these works being accomplished — and they 
 were the happy occupation of years — Sir Cecil 
 found his remaining income not more than suffi- 
 cient to support the army of dependents requisite 
 for the maintenance of his splendid residence, 
 
 77 
 
78 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 and he naturally turned to his wife for that assist- 
 ance which her fortune rendered her able to 
 afford. At first all had gone very well, but, as 
 the owner of a country house who entertains is 
 generally obliged to discover, expenses are apt to 
 multiply with years, as dependents rather incline 
 to increase than to dwindle in numbers. Lady 
 Adelstane had never been accustomed to spend 
 much time in the country, and when she grew 
 tired of her husband's West Country paradise she 
 discovered that it hurt her health to remain there. 
 She found small difficulty in persuading her physi- 
 cian to back her opinion ; Sir Cecil was told that 
 the Abbey was damp and the climate depressing, 
 and that it would be highly prejudicial to his 
 wife's health to remain there against her will. 
 Had arguments been wanting, the fact that Au- 
 gusta attributed her failure to produce an heir 
 entirely to the relaxing qualities of the West 
 Coimtry air would have convinced her husband 
 of the necessity for leaving it. It spite of the 
 constantly increasing population of the village, 
 he was willing to believe his wife and the doctors, 
 and travelled with her all over Europe in search of 
 the fecundity which nature had denied. 
 
 During the intervals of travel. Lady Adelstane 
 entertained her friends in town very lavishly, for 
 she had purchased a fine house in Belgrave Square ; 
 but, as she not only paid for the lease but for the 
 plenishing of this mansion, she pointed out to her 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 79 
 
 husband that in common fairness he should 
 buy the yacht upon which she had set her heart. 
 Sir Cecil was conscious of imprudence, but, instead 
 of reminding his wife that he had neither desired 
 nor advised the purchase of a town house, he 
 complied with her request, making the less demur 
 because he was passsionately fond of the sea. 
 
 This life afforded Lady Adelstane the perpet- 
 ual distraction for which her soul craved. Be- 
 ing continuously hospitable at home and abroad, 
 she and her husband became a very popular 
 couple. If Sir Cecil were intimate with no one, 
 he had innumerable acquaintances and was 
 respected by them all; and if Augusta's violent 
 friendships lasted but a short time — why, a 
 woman in her position can afford to be capricious, 
 and new friends succeeded old ones with oblig- 
 ing facility, nor did the supply show any signs of 
 being likely to fail. 
 
 Her perpetual amiabihty, her infantile dimples, 
 her extravagant attire, and incessant babble 
 rendered her rather attractive for a short time; 
 and, though her selfishness must become evident 
 upon closer acquaintance, it readily escaped 
 notice in a world which is only too willing to take 
 people as it finds them on the surface. 
 
 But whilst his wife's cherubic countenance 
 remained smooth in spite of the passing of years. 
 Sir Cecil's handsome face acquired a careworn 
 and harassed expression. 
 
80 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 Beyond all earthly things he loved the Abbey ; 
 but he sometimes wondered painfully whether it 
 were worth while to maintain an establishment so 
 costly for the sake of a few weeks* occasional resid- 
 ence at Welwysbere, whilst his actual existence was 
 spent in London, Scotland, and the Mediterranean. 
 A secret consolation dawned upon him when he 
 perceived that Philippa shared his love for the 
 Abbey, and his pride in the estate that had been 
 in the possession of the Adelstanes for so many 
 generations. 
 
 Catherine had desired that her child should not 
 be informed of the possibility of her succession 
 to the ownership of Welwysbere, and Sir Cecil had 
 scrupulously respected this desire; but now that 
 the possibility had become a probability, and 
 that Philippa was so nearly grown up, it was 
 tacitly understood that it was well she should be 
 brought to a sense of her future responsibilities, 
 and Augusta talked openly of the festivities that 
 must be organised for Philippa 's coming of age. 
 
 Catherine feared her daughter might be led 
 to think too much of her own importance, and 
 strove by private warnings of her own to modify 
 Philippa's expectations. 
 
 **You know, darling, nothing is certain in this 
 world." 
 
 *' Why, mamma, I am the last of the Adelstanes. 
 Of course I know it won't be for years and years 
 — I hope not. But the Abbey must belong to 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 81 
 
 me some day, or to my children," added Miss 
 Philippa calmly. 
 
 "Your cousin Cecil is quite a young man," 
 then, as Philippa smiled, ''well, middle-aged. A 
 thousand things might happen ; he may yet have 
 heirs of his own " 
 
 "Oh, mamma, they have been married eighteen 
 years. Roper says it's most improbable." 
 
 "Roper had no business to mention such things 
 to you." 
 
 "I'm not a baby," said Philippa, pouting. 
 "Every one but you knows that, mamma, and 
 people talk quite differently to me when you're 
 not listening. I know why you're afraid, mamma: 
 you think the notion of the Abbey being my very 
 own will turn my head, and make me want it whilst 
 Cousin Cecil is still alive. But you're quite wrong. 
 I don't want to settle down there a bit until I'm 
 quite old and have been all over the world, and 
 enjoyed myself for years. Though, of course, I 
 like to know it will be mine ; and so it ought, for, 
 after all, it belonged to my father, and if it hadn't 
 been for the horrid old entail you and I would be 
 living there now." 
 
 "I would far rather be living here," said 
 Catherine. 
 
 "I wouldn't, then. I love the Abbey and this 
 is horrid in some ways. I always feel ashamed 
 when callers come and there is no proper drawing- 
 room," said Philippa, who was conventional to 
 
82 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 her finger-tips. **0f course I don't mean," she 
 added relenting, "that I'm not fond of this place, 
 and don't know it's pretty and all that, but I 
 don*t like to live in a farmhouse, and I feel much 
 more at home in the Abbey." 
 
 '*But it isn't your home, Phil, and I hope you 
 will keep before you the possibility that you may 
 never inherit at all. Even if Augusta has no 
 children, she might not live for ever — I don't 
 like to say such things, but I must — Cousin Cecil 
 might marry again, and have sons " 
 
 *'0f course, I know thaty'* said Philippa, im- 
 patiently. "I might die myself, all sorts of things 
 might happen. You always throw cold water on 
 everything, mamma," she said in an injured tone. 
 
 Catherine abandoned her arguments in despair. 
 
 Now that the owners had returned to the Abbey 
 for Whitsuntide, both mother and daughter were 
 constantly invited there ; for Augusta appealed to 
 Catherine to assist her in the entertainment 
 of Lady Sarah, whilst Philippa asked nothing 
 better than to follow Augusta wherever she went. 
 
 ** Between grandmamma's age and her eccen- 
 tricity, it is growing frightfully difficult to know 
 what to do with her," Augusta complained to 
 Catherine. **I got Lord John down on purpose to 
 amuse her, for really he is a man I care nothing 
 about and one of the dullest people in the world, 
 thinking of nothing but eating and drinking; 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 83 
 
 so I thought they would potter about together. 
 But no such thing; he has taken to going round 
 the golf links with Grace Trumoin; so that I 
 scarcely get a word with her, though you know 
 what chums we are." 
 
 **She is very charming," said Catherine. 
 
 **I am so glad you like her; I am quite devoted 
 to her," said Augusta, beaming. "She and I 
 have so much in common. We both adore yacht- 
 ing, and we have some mutual friends we can't 
 bear. I always think that a great bond. Well* 
 I see next to nothing of her, what with her golfing 
 all day and bridging all night. And there is really 
 no excuse for her taking any notice of Lord John, 
 for every one knows he hasn't a penny in the 
 world." 
 
 *' Still, you have your sister," said Catherine, 
 soothingly. 
 
 "I don't want to say anything against Blanche," 
 said Augusta, discontentedly **but you know 
 how it is with one's family. One can never please 
 them, do what one will. As I always say, scratch 
 a relation and find an enemy." 
 
 "You can't expect your relations to like being 
 scratched," said Catherine, laughing outright. 
 "And you must own she is very good-natured, 
 Augusta." 
 
 "I don't say she isn't," said Augusta, resignedly, 
 "I am sure the way she humours poor Bob Rait 
 is quite touching. Such a fifth-rate man as he 
 
84 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 turned out to be after all, with quite impossible 
 relations. It is really a little hard on one for 
 one's sister to make such a marriage. What she 
 saw in him I never could make out, except that 
 he has a very fine property, but Blanche is far too 
 senseless to be influenced by a solid reason like that 
 for liking a man. Besides, his income was much 
 exaggerated. All she could say for him was that 
 he'd got a good leg for a boot, and the best seat 
 on a horse she'd ever seen. And yet, now they've 
 given up horses and taken to motors, they seem as 
 devoted as ever, which is absurd.'* 
 
 "Well, if they are happy " 
 
 "I don't see how anybody can be happy with 
 such a man. He is the soul of tactlessness; the 
 sort of person who reminds you afterwards in 
 cold blood of indiscreet confidences which you 
 wish you hadn't told him, and who shouts your 
 Christian name after you if you meet him in the 
 street. He slapped my back once in a room full of 
 strangers," said Augusta, swelling with ruffled 
 dignity. *' Imagine how I felt! Such things are 
 not done I I always apologise to Cecil for having 
 him here at all; he is so shockingly ill-bred." 
 
 **He has a very good heart," said Catherine, 
 "and one gets used to his little ways." 
 
 "I do not see that a good heart is an excuse 
 for slapping a lady on the back," said Augusta 
 reprovingly. "I am sure you would not have 
 liked it yourself." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 85 
 
 Catherine owned that she would not have liked 
 it, and the admission mollified Augusta. 
 
 *' Luckily this rage for motoring keeps him out 
 of Lady's Sarah's way,'* she said. *'I suppose it 
 is better she should be dull than annoyed, and 
 she cannot endure the sight of him. It is the 
 only point we have in common. Would you 
 believe it, he asked her the other day how old she 
 was! It was most unlucky Blanche should have 
 proposed herself just now, as she practically 
 did." 
 
 "Perhaps I had better go and find Lady Sarah 
 now," said Catherine, growing tired of the recital 
 of Augusta's grievances. 
 
 "Don't hurry away just when I want to talk 
 to you," cried Augusta. "I particularly asked 
 you to come early this morning. Grandmamma 
 always comes down soon after twelve and takes a 
 turn before luncheon. Surely it will be time enough 
 for you to see her then." 
 
 Augusta was seated in a garden-tent, open on 
 both sides, and looking on to a stretch of turf, 
 which the gardeners were now busily engaged 
 in mowing and rolling, winding their way in and 
 out of the brilliant variegated beds. 
 
 Beyond the light palings which bounded the 
 lawns on the one side, the deer were couched 
 in the shade of the oaks, for the midday sun was 
 very powerful. On the other side, close to the 
 house, stretched the tennis courts, where Catherine 
 
86 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 could see Philippa's light form running to and 
 fro, and her bright hair blowing in the wind. 
 
 "Philippa takes no care of her complexion," 
 said Augusta, following Catherine's gaze. **She 
 left her hat here on the table in spite of all I 
 could say. Girls are always like that. I wonder 
 you let her play singles, Catherine ; it is very hard 
 work when a man plays so well as Colonel Moore, 
 let him give her as many points as he will." 
 
 "I don't think he would let her overtire 
 herself," said Catherine, anxiously. **He is very 
 careful of her." 
 
 "He is quite a dear," said Augusta sentiment- 
 ally. *'That is exactly my idea of a man, you 
 know. Rather domineering and very clever, 
 with a delightful history of battles and things in 
 the background. Really if I had met him instead 
 of poor Cecil, there is no saying, but I suppose it 
 was not to be. However, I have begged him to 
 come over here whenever he likes; and he plays 
 bridge, which is such a comfort, as Cecil won't 
 and George Chilcott can't. So he is most useful in 
 the evening, sings like a bird and quite a godsend. 
 I am glad he is going to the War Office. He will 
 be so handy for the opera. I am so fond of tame 
 cats, and he is just the kind of tame cat I really 
 like." 
 
 Here Lady Sarah was to be seen slowly moving 
 across the lawn, leaning on her gold-headed cane, 
 and followed by Tailer, carrying Mumbo Jumbo, 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 87 
 
 a basket of crochet, a little bag without which 
 Lady Sarah never stirred, and two or three novels. 
 
 Augusta and Catherine hastened to meet this 
 procession, and to assist Tailer in establish- 
 ing their aged relative comfortably beneath the 
 awning of the tent. 
 
 ''Well, my love," said the old lady. *'Here I 
 am, you see, prepared to share the open-air cure 
 for an hour or so before lunch. That will do, 
 Tailer, you can put down all the things you have 
 brought, and go back and fetch all the things you 
 have forgotten. Where is Mumbo Jumbo's bis- 
 cuit, pray?" 
 
 Lady Sarah was contriving to pass the time at 
 Welwysbere agreeably enough, between bullying 
 Tailer and squabbling with Augusta, and the 
 latter's apprehensions of her visitor's dulness 
 were quite unfounded. 
 
 "I will leave Catherine to entertain you. Grand- 
 mamma. I have a good deal to do and was only 
 waiting till you came out," said Augusta. 
 
 ''Never think about me, my love," said Lady 
 Sarah indulgently. "Give me a book or a needle 
 and I am always perfectly happy. Pray continue 
 your usual morning occupations." 
 
 Augusta rustled away across the lawn, in her 
 blue muslin and Leghorn hat, looking something 
 like an overblown Dresden china shepherdess. 
 
 "My appearance is always the signal for 
 Augusta's household duties to begin," said Lady 
 
88 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 Sarah, very cheerfully, to Catherine. *'Well, 
 my love, have you decided to take my advice 
 about Philippa?" 
 
 **I suppose I had better," said Catherine 
 rather sadly. "David Moore said just the 
 same." 
 
 "Oh, you asked him, did you. He is a fine 
 fellow, your David Moore. We had the dullest of 
 dinner parties last night, and your Colonel was 
 pleased to sing to us. I enjoyed it vastly, for I 
 heard every word of the Leather Battel and 
 all my old favourites. Mr. Bob Rait thinks old 
 English ballads vulgar. That sums the man up 
 in a word, and Miss Clara Chilcott thought fit to 
 agree with him. She also confided to me that 
 she did not think it looked well for a man to play 
 the piano." 
 
 "Clara is of the nil admirari order," said 
 Catherine. 
 
 "That class of person usually is, my love. 
 After all, it is only in proportion to their own 
 cultivation that people can even feel, much less 
 express, appreciation. However, I dare say 
 Colonel Moore gets plenty of flattery, one way 
 or the other; and no doubt he is a selfish creature, 
 as any man must be who lives to five-and-thirty 
 without getting married. So he is your cousin, my 
 love! But very unlike your Chilcott relations." 
 
 "I only met him once — it was before my mar- 
 riage. He came to Bridescombe. I remember 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 89 
 
 we went primrosing together. It was the first 
 time I ever went primrosing in my Hfe." 
 
 "One is apt to remember that sort of occasion/' 
 said Lady Sarah, busying herself with her crochet, 
 but perfectly aware that the colour had deepened 
 in Catherine's soft cheeks. 
 
 "I didn't mean — anything more than I said," 
 said Catherine; her sincere and gentle regard 
 met Lady Sarah's shrewd glance with perfect 
 candour. 
 
 "My dear, you look five-and-twenty when you 
 blush," said Lady Sarah, in a tone of compli- 
 ment. * * Not a day more. It is a most becoming 
 habit. Though one I was never able to acquire," 
 she added, regretfully. "Well, well. It will 
 make poor Cecil happy to have Philippa in town. 
 He needs cheering. I tottered round the gardens 
 with him yesterday, and he was obliged to take 
 me to the old parterre, as we used to call it. A 
 fine mess Augusta has made of it. In my day her- 
 baceous borders were kept in the kitchen garden. 
 I never pretended to much horticultural know- 
 ledge, my love, but I hope I know a trifle more than 
 Augusta. To hear her quoting seedsmen's cata- 
 logues to Grace Trumoin makes me positively 
 ill. She is a Cockney from head to heel, and 
 could not distinguish a turnip-top from a cabbage. 
 Well, there is not a quiet green comer left in the 
 old place but some hedgerow bramble or other 
 with a new name must be popped into it. My 
 
90 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 favourite copper beech cut down to let more light 
 in on her roses, so that she can walk round and 
 reel a string of names off a row of labels. And 
 such names! In my young days when we wished 
 to be thought botanists we quoted Latin as ele- 
 gantly as possible. Climbing Bessie Johnson 
 indeed! It may make Augusta think of a rose, 
 but my imagination being stronger than my 
 eyesight, it conveys nothing to me but the vision 
 of a vulgar hoyden scrambling over a wall," said 
 Lady Sarah resentfully. 
 
 "Talking of hoydens," said Catherine, smiling, 
 *Thilippa has finished her set, and is coming 
 here for her hat." 
 
 Philippa came across the lawn, tall and hand- 
 some and serious, carrying her tennis racket, 
 and followed by David, who looked leaner and 
 browner than ever in his flannels. 
 
 Lady Sarah, sitting upright in her wicker chair, 
 with her Mechlin head-dress, and white curls 
 crowning her beautful old face, soft and cool, deli- 
 cate as a wrinkled roseleaf, looked up sharply 
 as Philippa stooped her bright head to kiss her 
 grandmother. 
 
 "Well, my sweet Philippa, I suppose you are 
 in the seventh heaven of delight." 
 
 "Why, he beat me," said Philippa, opening 
 her blue eyes in wonder, "though he gave me 
 points. I could beat Hector's head off if he gave 
 me points, for Tm nearly even with him as it is." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 91 
 
 ** Pshaw. I was not thinking of your games. 
 
 **She doesn't know," interposed Catherine. 
 
 ** Bless me, how indiscreet I am, but you can't 
 grudge her poor old granny the pleasure of telling 
 her," said Lady Sarah, mischievously hurrying 
 out her news lest any one should forestall her, 
 "that she's to go to London after all." 
 
 * 'Truly ? " cried Philippa in breathless joy. * * Do 
 you mean by myself — with Cousin Augusta?" 
 
 Her mother's look answered her, half -fond, 
 half -reproachfully. 
 
 "Was it granny who persuaded you, mother?" 
 she cried. 
 
 "I understand we divide that responsibility, 
 Colonel Moore," said Lady Sarah, glancing at 
 the tall soldier who stood in the entrance of the 
 tent, watching Philippa's ecstasy with an amused 
 smile. 
 
 "What a fuss to make about a trip to town," 
 thought David, "and what a dull life the poor girl 
 must have led to be so excited over such a trifle." 
 
 "Fm quite willing to acknowledge my share 
 of the responsibility. Lady Sarah," he said gaily. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 The red cliffs, crowned with slopes and hillocks 
 of daisied grass, stood out against blue sky and 
 bluer sea. Below them the foaming waters 
 surged round masses of soft crumbling shale^ 
 shining black and gold and green, with wet sea- 
 weed. In the calm distance a little fishing-boat 
 sailed away towards the horizon. The cliffs 
 sloped away into miles of sandy down, patched 
 with golden gorse, here and there bearing rank, 
 coarse, dry grasses to the very edge of the salt 
 water. 
 
 On the shore, between the pointed rocks, tiny 
 wild creatures of the deep sported in a fool's 
 paradise of clear quiet pools, unmindful of the 
 arid desolation that would presently overtake 
 them with the ebbing of the tide. 
 
 "All this within reach of our doors, and we 
 have never come here before. The very minute I 
 grow up, I will have a motor of my own,'* cried 
 Philippa. "What a splendid idea of Mr. Ralt's 
 to have a picnic!" 
 
 She was leaning against the rocks, and the fresh 
 sea- wind deepened her beautiful colour and bright- 
 
 92 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 93 
 
 ened her clear eyes, fluttering her blue serge skirt 
 about her white feet, which were balancing on 
 the side of one of the little pools and lapped by 
 the miniature wavelets which blew across its 
 surface. 
 
 On the top of the rock beside her a little figure 
 was perched. 
 
 Lily Chilcott, held tightly by her uncle's strong 
 arm. 
 
 "David is quite silly about children," said 
 Miss Clara, who spoke habitually in the voice of a 
 reproving schoolmistress. "Look at him down 
 there among those nasty, shiny, slippery rocks. 
 He will certainly let Lily get wet and ruin her 
 frock. I think I will call her back.'* 
 
 "You may call till you are black in the face," 
 said Mrs. Rait, jovially, "but you will never get 
 them to hear you. The wind is blowing inland." 
 
 "They might see me," said the persevering 
 aunt; and she waved her large arms authorita- 
 tively, executing strange antics on the edge of the 
 cliff. 
 
 "I wish she would fall over," growled Lord 
 John sotto voce to Lady Grace, who had discovered 
 a square yard of shade beneath a furze bush, and 
 was politely sharing it with him. 
 
 "So do I," said Lady Grace, with unusual 
 animation. "Does she ever leave any one 
 alone?" 
 
 "Never, so far as I can see. She is a perpetual 
 
04 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 joy to me. I shall feel quite lonely without her 
 when I get back to town." 
 
 "Take her with you." suggested Lady Grace. 
 
 "One would never have a dull moment," he 
 said, tipping his straw hat over his face. "Listen 
 to her. She's off again." 
 
 "I really think, Catherine, that Philippa is 
 rather old to take her shoes and stockings off and 
 paddle," Miss Chilcott was saying, in a shocked 
 voice. 
 
 "I hope she won't catch cold," was Catherine's 
 only reply. 
 
 "It is not that I was thinking of," said Clara, 
 unaware of Lord John's delighted chuckle. "It is 
 all very well for quite little children; but I think 
 even Lily is getting rather old,-^and Philippa! 
 Why she is nearly as tall as I am. There! I am 
 certain that David saw me then." She redoubled 
 her gesticulations. "How tiresome he is; he is 
 turning Lily round and making them both look 
 out to sea. That is just like David. I suppose 
 he is afraid that we want him to make himself 
 useful unpacking the lunch." 
 
 "There are plenty of us to do that, for we have 
 only one basket with us, and I believe that is full of 
 crockery," said Mr. Rait. "However, lunch would 
 be no use without liquor, and Augusta is bringing 
 the wine-hampers and the rest of the things." 
 
 "She must surely be due. We have been here 
 two hours," said a discontented voice. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 96 
 
 " She is overdue. We calculated that by sending 
 the carriage over night to Morecot, and catch- 
 ing the ten o'clock train from Ilverton this morn- 
 ing, she would be here only an hour later than 
 we were," cried Mr. Rait, who had planned the 
 whole expedition, provided two motors to convey 
 the majority of the party, and was now under 
 the impression that they were all thoroughly 
 enjoying themselves. 
 
 "I shall mutiny if this patch of shade gets 
 any smaller. I see signs of its shrinking," growled 
 Lord John. **Why should we get sunstroke to 
 please Rait?" 
 
 **I can't think why," said Lady Grace, calmly. 
 **He is the kind of man who always contrives to 
 do things with the maximum of discomfort." 
 
 **He has been asking me to go and stay with 
 him in the North. He assures me they often take 
 this sort of trip there," said Lord John, grimly. 
 "I could hardly disguise my pleasure at the 
 proposal." 
 
 "He has asked me, and I am going." 
 
 "Not really!" 
 
 "I would stay with my own washerwoman if 
 she lived in the country and asked me — to save 
 the expense of my flat. Every little helps," 
 said Lady Grace, laconically. "You know how I 
 loathe London." 
 
 "Every one does in theory, but in practice one 
 can't keep away from it." 
 
96 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 **I keep away from it nine months of the year, 
 but I couldn't if I sorted out my invitations too 
 carefully," said Lady Grace. 
 
 "Here is Thomas. Bless me! I hope there 
 hasn't been an accident," said Miss Dulcinea, in 
 alarmed tones. 
 
 But the servant was only charged with a mes- 
 sage to say her ladyship thought the cliffs would 
 be too hot, and would the party kindly join her 
 in the shade of the rocks on the beach below, 
 where lunch was being laid ? 
 
 "The first sensible suggestion that has yet been 
 made," said Lord John, rising with great alacrity. 
 
 "But this was so convenient for the motors. 
 There is only a footway down the rocks," expostu- 
 lated the disappointed Mr. Rait. 
 
 "There is a road round, sir, which joins the one 
 her ladyship took from Morecot." 
 
 "It must be a deuce of a way round — and a 
 very bad road." 
 
 But the rest of the party unconcernedly left 
 Mr. Rait to settle the question of servants and 
 motors as best he could. 
 
 "One expects to be either grilled, or frozen, 
 or drenched to the skin at a picnic," said Lord 
 John, assisting his neighbour to rise; "but why 
 one should pretend to enjoy it, I don't know." 
 
 "Well, you needn't pretend to enjoy it with 
 me," said Lady Grace. 
 
 Miss Dulcinea stumbled down the steep path- 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 97 
 
 way aided by Catherine and the stalwart Blanche ; 
 and Clara tripped behind, consoling herself with 
 the reflection that she could now rescue Lily 
 from the evil influence of her Uncle David. 
 
 They found Augusta enthroned, in the utmost 
 coolness and comfort, upon the dry bed of sand 
 and rocks in the deep shadow of the cliffs, issuing 
 calm directions to flushed and heated footmen, 
 who were spreading forth a banquet of cold quail 
 and salmon and cutlets and a variety of chaud- 
 froids, among crystal jugs of iced champagne and 
 cider and claret cup, and bowls of salad and 
 strawberries and frozen cream. 
 
 Lord John flew to her side, and congratulated 
 her with the warmth of sincerity upon her talent 
 for organisation, drawing a vivid picture of the 
 discomfort from which she had rescued her guests. 
 
 ''When I heard Bob talking last night of the 
 fine camping ground on the top of the cliffs I 
 made up my mind it would be a glaring exposed 
 place, quite unfit for luncheon," said Augusta, 
 with great composure. "But 1 said nothing, 
 because he is always so noisy and tiresome, and 
 brings forward time-tables and things, and argues 
 until one is quite worn out ; so I just say * Yes * 
 to everything he suggests, and don't do it." 
 
 "You are really marvellous," said Lord John, 
 with cordial admiration. 
 
 "Of course, at the last moment Lady Sarah 
 didn't come," continued Augusta, bestowing a 
 
^ CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 complacent smile upon Lord John. "How she 
 could ever have contemplated it at her age, I 
 don't know, but she did. So I came alone, as 
 Cecil thought he ought to stay with her; he was 
 glad of the excuse, for he hates picnics, like 
 everybody else. George Chilcott followed in his 
 dogcart, and we both felt quite sorry for you 
 racing along in the dust. But Bob made Grace 
 promise to go with him." 
 
 She glanced reproachfully at her bosom friend ; 
 but Lady Grace's eyes were turned away and she 
 was looking thoughtfully out to sea, where the 
 tall figures of David Moore and George Chil- 
 cott were outlined darkly against the dazzling 
 glory of the waters, and between them a little light 
 form — ^Lily — capering joyfully on the wet sands. 
 
 Philippa, left alone in a comer of the rocks, 
 was hastily replacing her discarded shoes and 
 stockings, and tying up her rebellious tresses; 
 she had just become aware of the advent of 
 Augusta and the luncheon. Presently she came 
 swiftly across the sands, and took the coveted 
 place beside her idol. 
 
 "Oh, Cousin Augusta! How beautifully cool 
 and fresh you look! We have had such a heavenly 
 time. But I*m afraid I'm rather untidy," said 
 Philippa, with a hasty endeavour to smooth her 
 splashed and sandy skirt. "But do what I would 
 I could never look like you, so what does it 
 matter?" 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 99 
 
 *'Philippa! What a state you are in,** ex- 
 claimed Clara, as Miss Dulcinea was deposited, 
 panting, at the foot of the cliff, by the tired 
 Catherine and the vigorous Mrs. Rait. Really, 
 a girl of your age should know better than to get 
 herself into such a mess." 
 
 **You should see Lily,'* said Philippa, mis- 
 chievously. "She's simply drenched. No, no, 
 I don't mean really," in alarm. "Cousin David 
 took off her frock and spread it in the sim to dry. 
 It's only a little sea-water.** 
 
 "Took off her frock!" gasped Clara. "Do you 
 mean she is now paddling — in her petticoat?'' 
 
 "To be sure, she is; but Cousin George doesn't 
 mind.** 
 
 "Do leave them alone, Clara,'* said Catherine's 
 gentle voice, but to no purpose. 
 
 The exhausted but heroic aunt was already al- 
 most out of hearing, climbing over slippery rocks 
 and toiling through heavy sand to reach the 
 delinquent. 
 
 "Here comes Clara. Now we shall catch it,** 
 said honest George, apprehensively. 
 
 "My frock! My frock!" giggled little Lily, but 
 her frail fingers grasped her uncle's solid brown 
 hand convulsively. 
 
 "Come on,'* said David. "We'll race her." 
 
 He picked up the frock, huddled it on to 
 his small niece as best he could, swung her 
 on to his shoulder, and made for the luncheon- 
 
100 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 party, who watched the chase and its result 
 sympathetically. 
 
 ''Give her to me," said Lady Grace, **and put 
 her between us. Now you're safe, Lily, I'll button 
 your frock, and Uncle David will give you some 
 chicken." 
 
 The child looked up curiously into the calm 
 high-bred face. 
 
 "It's rather wet underneath," she said, con- 
 fidentially; "but Aunt Clara won't never know 
 if you don't tell." 
 
 "You wicked little creature," said Lady Grace, 
 and, moved by the appealing expression of the 
 great black eyes and pale elfin face, she suddenly 
 stooped and kissed Lily. 
 
 ' * It can't hurt her, can it ? It's only sea-water," 
 she said, looking round appealingly. 
 
 "Nothing could hurt anybody in this heat," 
 said Augusta, decidedly. 
 
 Clara presently took her place at the feast in a 
 subdued condition, very unlike the mood of vir- 
 tuous indignation which had previously possessed 
 her. 
 
 George, who was annoyed with himself for 
 being afraid of his sister's reproaches, had given 
 vent to his annoyance with unusual vigour. 
 
 "I tell you what, Clara, if you himt that poor 
 little beggar away from David every time they're 
 enjoying themselves together, I'll let him take 
 her away with him altogether as he wishes. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 101 
 
 and see if he can*t make her happier than 
 we do." 
 
 He had not meant to tell Clara of David's 
 proposition, any more than he meant to com- 
 ply with it; but he used the threat that came 
 uppermost. 
 
 **Let David take her away!'* repeated Clara, 
 stunned. 
 
 ''Well, see to it that you leave them alone, 
 then," thundered George, and he turned on his 
 heel and tramped heavily over the sand beside 
 his cowed and astonished relative, in time to see 
 Lady Grace stoop protectingly over Lily's little 
 dark head. 
 
 His face softened; but towards his sister there 
 was no relenting, so that Miss Chilcott, to the 
 surprise of the culprit, made no comment upon 
 the audacity of Lily's behaviour, but ate her 
 luncheon in stony silence. 
 
 As soon as the feast was over — and it was cer- 
 tainly prolonged almost unduly — Augusta's one 
 object was to rest herself thoroughly until it should 
 be time for tea. Her ideal of a pleasant afternoon 
 corresponded so closely with that of Lord John, 
 that they were presently to be perceived dozing 
 gently in adjacent comers, chosen with a view 
 to shelter from wind and sun. 
 
 The indefatigable Mr. Rait managed to hire a 
 boat, and, having invited every one else in turn 
 to go with him in vain, was at length obliged 
 
102 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 to content himself with Clara's company, and 
 departed with chastened enthusiasm. 
 
 ' * Has he gone ? How very restful ! ' ' murmured 
 Augusta, opening one eye, and closing it again. 
 
 Philippa perceived that her divinity was in no 
 mood for conversation, so she put her dignity in 
 her pocket, and assisted Lily and her uncle to make 
 castles in the sand. 
 
 Miss Dulcinea looked on in delight from her 
 distant perch among the rocks, with Catherine 
 by her side. 
 
 ** After all, Philippa is only a child at heart,*' 
 she said. "She is quite as happy as Lily. Look 
 at her." 
 
 Catherine looked, and shook her head. 
 
 **She will not come back from London a child." 
 
 The triumph faded from poor Miss Dulcinea's 
 simple face, and Catherine repented. 
 
 *' Never mind, Auntie. It is natural. As they 
 say, I cannot keep her for ever, and she looks 
 so bright and happy now — so different from the 
 look she sometimes wears at home — that it is 
 clear the poor child needs a little pleasure and 
 novelty and companionship. I have shut her 
 up too much. Perhaps the life at Shepherd's 
 Rest is really too quiet for a young thing." 
 
 "Perhaps it is, my darling," said old Miss 
 Dulcinea. "I have often thought how young 
 you were when you settled down there, and won- 
 dered whether it were quite right — or whole- 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 103 
 
 some — that you should have hidden yourself 
 away from the world so much — all these years?" 
 
 Catherine felt a little pang at her heart. She 
 had asked herself this question not a few times 
 lately. 
 
 The faint misgivings which had assailed her 
 during the past months of Philippa's ever-increas- 
 ing unrest and discontent had resolved them- 
 selves into a very distinct and depressing doubt 
 since David Moore's return. 
 
 Had she been morbid and cowardly — devoting 
 her thoughts and consecrating her existence 
 rather to the dead than to the living? She ques- 
 tioned her own motives and conduct sadly enough. 
 Was it too late to start afresh — to reconstruct 
 her life — to begin again ? 
 
 Not for George, it seemed, because he was a 
 man, and must Hve a man*s life and do a man's 
 work. Not for David — ^whose future held a 
 thousand possibilities; whose career, in a manner, 
 was but just begun. But for her — though she 
 was, as she somewhat wistfully reflected, in 
 actual years younger than either of these two — 
 oh, surely, for her it was too late. What could 
 be left for her but to go quietly on to the end in 
 the little round of duties she had created for her- 
 self ? She had put in order and beautified a comer, 
 though but an infinitesimal comer, of the universe, 
 and was attached to it by a thousand threads of 
 habit, responsibility, and association. She was 
 
104 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 the humble Providence of a few humble lives. 
 Had she indeed been useless in her generation? 
 Her heart — her consciousness of pure intention — 
 cried out no; but her judgment faltered and 
 hesitated. 
 
 Turning in her perplexity to look at Miss 
 Dulcinea, the question lost itself in a smile, for 
 the soft wrinkled eyelids had closed over the ten- 
 der faded blue eyes, and her aunt was slumbering 
 peacefully, nodding forward as she sat. 
 
 No problems long disturbed Miss Dulcinea's 
 serene mind, calm with the repose of settled 
 convictions. 
 
 Catherine rose noiselessly and moved away, 
 climbing cautiously over the rocks until she 
 reached the firm stretch of sand beyond. 
 
 The tide was now out so far that the sea looked 
 a great way off. 
 
 She wandered down to the edge of the glittering 
 water, and stood shading her brow with her 
 hand, looking across it into the mist of distance, 
 until her eyes were dazzled. Then she walked 
 quietly along the strip of wet sand next the sea. 
 
 The sea always reminded her of her long child- 
 hood at Calais; and the girl she had been then 
 was much more real in Catherine's consciousness 
 than the woman she was now; for she was of 
 those whose hearts remain young, and she was 
 often aware of a half -amused, half -shamed sensa- 
 tion of alarm lest it might be some day discovered 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 105 
 
 — in spite of her middle-aged face and figure — 
 that she had never really grown up at all. 
 
 As in a vision she saw the girl she had once 
 been — a maiden with fresh complexion, short 
 curly hair, and bright eyes, shockingly dressed 
 in a faded red velvet cap and a brown ulster 
 turned green with age — hurrying up and down 
 the deserted sands at Calais, in the chill March 
 wind, crying her heart out because she was in 
 love and desolate, without hope, without friends. 
 Poor little thing! Catherine looked back upon her 
 with some pity and more awe. She had been so 
 very young, so very innocent, so very certain that 
 the happiness of her whole life was bound up in 
 that pure and childish passion for the man she had 
 seen but once, and knew not at all. So ready — 
 wilfully, woefully ready — to sacrifice anything — 
 to lay down her life for a dream — a fancy. Poor 
 little Catherine! And after all the wildest of her 
 hopes had come to pass; she had married the 
 hero. . . . 
 
 Now it was no longer the girl Catherine Carey — 
 the little nobody from Calais — who was walking 
 by the edge of the sea, but Catherine Adelstane, 
 a woman alone, in a grave grey gown that some- 
 how typified her quiet existence. A woman not 
 given to weeping, nor to wild and frensied wishes; 
 but possessed of a nature tranquillised and con- 
 tented by the passing of peaceful years. A woman 
 who was even — the colour rose in Catherine's 
 
106 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 soft face, as though she were half -ashamed of the 
 fact she could not deny — lighthearted, were it 
 not for the one geat anxiety that beset her. 
 
 A woman who only asked — it is the pathetic 
 prayer of middle-age — to be allowed to work in 
 peace a little while longer for the happiness of 
 others. This was what she had become. A 
 resigned and gentle Catherine, but yet a Catherine 
 from whose wistful eyes the laugh was never very 
 far distant after all. 
 
 When Lord John Trelleck learnt that the pair 
 of grey horses would take nearly three hours to 
 make the journey home to Welwysbere, he elected 
 to return thither by Mr. Ralt's motor, which 
 would cover the distance in about forty minutes; 
 and since Lady Grace accepted George Chilcott's 
 invitation to be driven home in his dogcart with 
 little Lily, Augusta invited Catherine to occupy 
 the vacant seat in the barouche. 
 
 For the first few miles of their journey the road 
 skirted the sea, and the great rolling hillocks of 
 sands, with the yellow gorse blazing in the low 
 simshine; then they left the sea behind, and the 
 wind-tossed pines and open downs of coarse grass 
 changed to the familiar stunted oak and Devon 
 hedgerow; the soil grew rich and red; the long 
 shadows fell from the elms across the fine green 
 turf of the well-stocked meadows; the brown 
 roofs and white walls of prosperous homesteads 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 107 
 
 rose amid armies of thatched ricks and stacks 
 and leafy orchards. They drove over miles of 
 shaded highways, and through sunken lanes, in 
 the cool and pleasant twilight of the long Jiine 
 day. 
 
 "I have wanted to talk to you for ages, Cather- 
 ine," said Augusta, vaguely, "but you know how 
 we are always interrupted. It is very good of 
 you to let Philippa come with us to town. Cecil 
 is delighted to have her, and so am I. You know 
 we are quite as fond of her as if she had been our 
 own." 
 
 "You are very kind to her," said Catherine. 
 
 ' * And you are sure you like her to come ? ' * Au- 
 gusta asked. 
 
 "I can't quite say that, Augusta. I have never 
 parted with her before, and she is all I have in 
 the world; but she wishes to go, and — and you 
 will take care of her?" Catherine's voice grew 
 appealing. 
 
 "Of course I will take care of her," said Augusta, 
 with dignity, "and it's all very well for you to 
 talk of her being all you have in the world, but 
 look at me, with neither chick nor child. I 
 shouldn't talk of being lonely if I had a pretty 
 daughter, I can tell you, though naturally in my 
 position I would rather have a son. Of course 
 you will say I have Cecil." Augusta had a habit 
 which exasperated Catherine of attributing im- 
 likely remarks to her, and then pointing out 
 
108 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 their futility. **But, after all, what is a man? 
 Devoted as we have always been, I have never 
 even pretended that Cecil understood me. I 
 don't think you ought to grudge Philippa to me 
 for a few weeks, Catherine, I don't indeed.** 
 
 "Perhaps not," said Catherine. 
 
 "And when you own yourself she wishes it so 
 much. I can't help being touched at her fondness 
 for me," said Augusta. "It is quite pathetic 
 the way she follows me about! I don't know what 
 she sees in me, I'm sure." 
 
 Catherine was sorely tempted to reply that she 
 did not know either, but she refrained, and merely 
 observed : 
 
 "She is at the age when girls take violent fan- 
 cies to people. She has certainly taken a violent 
 fancy to you." 
 
 "Well, I can tell you it is very much to her 
 advantage if she has," said Augusta, pompously. 
 "Though I should have looked upon her, in any 
 case, being Cecil's heiress, as she is, like a child 
 of my own. But I naturally take more interest 
 in a girl who really, I may say, almost worships 
 me," said Augusta, with modest triumph, "than 
 I should to another. And you know, Catherine, 
 as I have told you before, I mean to leave 
 my money to Philippa if she does inherit the 
 Abbey." 
 
 "It is very kind of you to say so, Augusta, 
 but please do not talk of such things. Philippa 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 109 
 
 will have plenty, more than is good for her, I am 
 afraid." 
 
 "Indeed, she won't; the Abbey is a frightfully 
 expensive place to keep up. I am always urging 
 Cecil to let it; but you know how obstinate he 
 is. If she is to live there as he wishes, she will 
 need far more money than he can leave her. And 
 I quite disagree with Blanche, who is all for 
 hunting out poor relations of papa's whom we 
 have never even heard of, to inherit her money, 
 and wants me to do the same." 
 
 **It would surely be just." 
 
 **Not at all. Why should it be just? Poor 
 dear papa made his own money, and his family 
 had nothing to do with it. I told Blanche that 
 I meant to make a new will directly I went back 
 to town and leave everything to Philippa, and 
 she was as much annoyed as if she expected to 
 outlive me and inherit my money herself. People 
 are such dogs in the manger. As I told her, it is 
 far more likely to be the other way about, racing 
 about in motors all over Europe as she does. 
 Every day I expect to hear she has been killed, 
 or at least maimed for life," said Augusta, with 
 perfect calm. 
 
 "I hope you will not tell Philippa of your inten- 
 tions: a thousand things might happen to make 
 you change your mind. Though I am none the 
 less grateful to you for the kind thought." 
 
 "I haven't exactly told her," said Augusta, 
 
110 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 rather guiltily. "I may have let slip that she 
 will get my pearls one of these days; perhaps I 
 shall give her some when she marries. And that 
 reminds me, Catherine, that you need not be afraid 
 I shall let her meet the wrong kind of man." 
 
 "I hope you will not let her meet any men at 
 all," cried Catherine, " she is only a child. And 
 you promised you would not let her be considered 
 as come out in any way." 
 
 "Of course not," said Augusta. "Still, if she 
 sees any onCy it is important, even at sixteen, 
 that they should be the right people. I am not 
 like Blanche, who cares nothing at all who people 
 are, so long as she likes them. I say what does it 
 matter if one likes them or not so long as they are 
 all right? I shall get up boy and girl parties for 
 Philippa, and I have thought of three boys who 
 would be excellent matches for her, if they should 
 happen — one never can tell, you know — and she 
 is very pretty." 
 
 "Dear Augusta, pray do not put such things into 
 her head or into mine, or you will frighten me out 
 of letting her go after all," cried Catherine in 
 distress. "It will be quite excitement enough for 
 Philippa to be taken to the Opera, or a theatre or 
 two, and to drive in the Park with you. The rest of 
 her time she will be quite happy with Roper, since 
 you are so kind as to let me send Roper with her." 
 
 " But I hope you will trust me to get her clothes, " 
 said Augusta. "Roper must be quite out of date. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 111 
 
 I can assure you,'* earnestly, "I will take as much 
 pains to dress her as I do myself." 
 
 Catherine's attention wandered during the 
 long monologue on dress which ensued. She 
 realised with a sudden pang that she was actually 
 giving up the care of her child for the moment 
 to Augusta, and felt much inclined to put a 
 sudden end to poor Lady Adelstane's babble by 
 informing her that she had changed her mind, 
 and did not intend to let Philippa go after all. 
 What, after all, was the advice of Lady Sarah 
 or of David Moore to her, that she must needs 
 follow it? Ah, if it were only Lady Sarah and 
 David Moore whom she had to consider, how 
 quickly would her decision have been taken! 
 
 But there was Philippa. 
 
 Philippa, who was no longer a child, but a 
 most relentless youthful judge : a merciless detec- 
 tor of weakness and vacillation, and full of a griev- 
 ance which was not, alas! quite an unreasonable 
 grievance ; of discontent and impatience with her 
 surroundings, and the isolation which Catherine 
 had found so restful and pleasant. 
 
 Perhaps it was the secret guilty conviction that 
 her child had some reason on her side, no less than 
 a lack of moral courage to disappoint her, that kept 
 Catherine silent; whilst Augusta, quite unaware 
 that she was monopolising the conversation, chat- 
 tered happily on concerning her plans for Philippa 's 
 entertainment until the drive came to an end. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 David Moore, returning home to England at 
 the very moment of the year when the beauty 
 of his native country was at its height, could 
 not but pay it the tribute of a regretful sigh 
 now and then when he reflected upon the long 
 years of his exile. 
 
 The weather during his stay at Bridescombe 
 happened to be the perfection of early June 
 weather. Every morning he woke to find the 
 Devonshire valley bathed in haze of early morning 
 stmshine, and the lawn under his window glitter- 
 ing with dew, beneath old elm-trees thickly 
 clothed with green, and mighty oaks with scanty 
 foliage yet freshly golden. 
 
 A splendid variety of English timber in near 
 perfection and distant outline studded the groimds 
 of Bridescombe and crowned the slopes of the 
 Welwysbere hills. An opening in the shrubberies 
 showed stretches of yellow meadow rich with the 
 fulfilment of the season's growth. Closer at hand 
 a gravel path wound through well-kept shrubs 
 to the borders of a little lake, thickly fringed 
 with lily leaves, and reflecting in its black depths 
 
 112 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 113 
 
 the crimson of a copper beech and the trembling 
 foliage of a tall sentinel poplar. 
 
 Bridescombe, if less stately than Welwysbere 
 Abbey, was yet the very ideal of a pleasant 
 country house without, though within the ar- 
 rangements left much to be desired. 
 
 David decided that George Chilcott was in 
 some respects to be envied, and thought of him- 
 self, sadly, as a lonely man without home or 
 family; he was acutely reminiscent, in this coun- 
 try quiet, of his years of exile, thinking of oppor- 
 tunities missed, of good work unrecognised, of 
 risks run and hardships faced to no purpose, 
 of gallant lives laid down in vain. Every sol- 
 dier who has had a fair share of campaigning 
 must be subject to such melancholy retrospective 
 moods, unless indeed he has been exceptionally 
 lucky, or is exceptionally selfish. David was 
 neither the one nor the other. He had striven 
 hard and accomplished brilliant work during his 
 own varied career; he had made some mistakes 
 and accepted much suffering in the matter-of-fact 
 way peculiar to the Anglo-Saxon race; but his 
 exceptional ability, aided by an attractive and 
 sympathetic personality, had obtained a fair 
 share of recognition and reward. 
 
 Squire George looked at his brother-in-law and 
 sighed in his turn. Here was David, his junior, a 
 distinguished soldier, a lieutenant-colonel and a 
 V.C., resigning the command of his regiment 
 
114 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 in the Orange River Colony only to accept an 
 appointment on the General Staff at the War 
 Office. George, too, had loved soldiering, but he 
 had sent in his papers on obtaining his company, 
 and settled down, as he put it dismally to himself, 
 to a fat farmer's life, on an estate too small to 
 afford him full occupation — a life which appeared 
 to be one of ease and comfort, though it was in 
 reality filled with petty cares and irritating do- 
 mestic worry. 
 
 He looked back to the years of his brief married 
 life with heavy regret for the peace and happiness 
 that had filled them. Delia's nature had been 
 bright and joyous and her interests many and 
 varied. The minor troubles of life had been dis- 
 persed by her glad energy, and lightened by her 
 caresses and consolation. Now they loomed 
 largely upon him, aggravated by constant com- 
 plaints from his mother and sister, who spared 
 no opportunity of fault-finding and who would 
 have been more caustic still, save that they were 
 a little afraid of George, and believed it their 
 duty to humour him to a certain extent. Thus, 
 when Clara had unwittingly goaded him to 
 extremity, she would endure the angry retort she 
 had elicited with Christian resignation and 
 remark to her mother, "We must remember that 
 poor George is a widower," or '*I dare say he was 
 thinking of poor Delia," with tender forbearance; 
 which was real and not assumed, for Clara was a 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 115 
 
 conscientious and well-meaning person, who lived 
 but to fulfil the behests of her elderly but strong- 
 minded parent. 
 
 His boy's infancy had been only a time of 
 delight to poor George, who heard much of the 
 manifold perfections of his offspring from its 
 adoring mother, and believed in most of them; 
 but it appeared to him now that his little girl's 
 childhood was only a record of squabbles and 
 pimishments. Little Lily's delinquencies were 
 reported to him as though they had been crimes, 
 and he was led to believe her an unusually naughty 
 child, though she never showed this side of her 
 character to him — an abstention which, according 
 to her aunt and grandmother, clearly proved the 
 exceeding artfulness of her disposition. 
 
 She looked at George, with her mother's great 
 black eyes shining, full of silent meaning, from 
 her small pale face; for though she lived in the 
 country and out of doors, and drank new warm 
 milk from the cow, and was fed upon porridge, 
 little Lily remained unaccountably thin, and 
 wizened, and sallow, the exact opposite of her 
 well-grown, healthy, rosy brother, who was six 
 years her senior. She was remarkably precocious 
 — another grievance to her relatives, who were 
 obliged to lock up books and newspapers lest 
 she should imbibe their contents imobserved. 
 
 "She is not to be trusted," said Clara Chilcott. 
 
 ''She is Delia over again," said old Mrs. Chil- 
 
.t 
 
 94 CAliERINE'S CHILD 
 
 joy to me. I sail feel quite lonely without her 
 when I get baclto town." 
 
 "Take her wii you." suggested Lady Grace. 
 
 "One would .ever have a dull moment," he 
 said, tipping hisitraw hat over his face. "Listen 
 to her. She's of again." 
 
 "I really thik, Catherine, that Philippa is 
 rather old to tafe her shoes and stockings off and 
 paddle," Miss Qilcott was saying, in a shocked 
 voice. 
 
 **I hope she ^n't catch cold," was Catherine's 
 only reply. | 
 
 "It is not the I was thinking of," said Clara, 
 unaware of Lore John's delighted chuckle. "It is 
 all very well foiquite little children; but I think 
 even Lily is geting rather old,-^and Philippa! 
 Why she is neater as tall as I am. There! I am 
 certain that Da d saw me then." She redoubled 
 her gesticulatia t. "How tiresome he is; he is 
 turning Lily tq id and making them both look 
 out to sea. Tlfc is just like David. I suppose 
 he is afraid thi we want him to make himself 
 useful unpackiilthe lunch." 
 
 "There are ppty of us to do that, for we have 
 only one baskewith us, and I believe that is full of 
 crockery, ' ' said Ir. Rait. * * However, lunch would 
 be no use withat liquor, and Augusta is bringing 
 the wine-hampes and the rest of the things." 
 
 "She must srely be due. We have been here 
 two hours," sai a discontented voice. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 95 
 
 " She is overdue. We calculated the by sending 
 the carriage over night to Morecotand catch- 
 ing the ten o'clock train from Ilverto this morn- 
 ing, she would be here only an hou later than 
 we were," cried Mr. Rait, who had planned the 
 whole expedition, provided two motes to convey 
 the majority of the party, and watnow under 
 the impression that they were all thoroughly 
 enjoying themselves. 
 
 "I shall mutiny if this patch ol shade gets 
 any smaller. I see signs of its shrinldg," growled 
 Lord John. "Why should we get unstroke to 
 please Rait?" 
 
 "I can't think why," said Lady Qice, calmly. 
 *'He is the kind of man who alwaya:ont rives to 
 do things with the maximum of discaifort." 
 
 "He has been asking me to go ad stay with 
 him in the North. He assures me th^r often take 
 this sort of trip there," said Lord jhn, grimly. 
 "I could hardly disguise my pleaure at the 
 proposal." 
 
 "He has asked me, and I am goi^." 
 
 "Not really!" 
 
 "I would stay with my own waserwoman if 
 she lived in the country and asked iie — to save 
 the expense of my fiat. Ever>' Itle helps," 
 said Lady Grace, laconically. "You<now how I 
 loathe London." 
 
 "Every one does in theory, but i^practice one 
 can't keep away from it." 
 
116 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 cott; and it is to be feared that in these words 
 she summed up Lily's failure to gain her relatives* 
 approbation. They did not mean to be unkind, 
 but merely strove in vain to change her nature 
 into one more nearly resembling their own. 
 
 Old Mrs. Chilcott was absolute in her sway 
 over her son's household, and George seldom 
 interfered with her, partly because he had a 
 natural respect for his mother's experience and 
 authority, and partly because he desired above 
 all things to keep the peace. 
 
 Lily was the small human sacrifice unwittingly 
 offered up to gain this end, and after all the end 
 was not gained. For the victories obtained in the 
 unequal battle were not complete until they 
 had been retailed to the father of the rebel, 
 who was exhorted that it was his duty to 
 denounce and not to pity the wretched little 
 offender. 
 
 * * I believe the poor little kid is a regular spitfire. 
 Nobody can do anything with her. She's had 
 these daily rows over her lessons ever since she 
 was four years old," said George, in weary, de- 
 jected tones to David; thus apologising for the 
 low sobbing and the steady rumble of sermonis- 
 ing that issued from the dining-room, where daily 
 after breakfast was Clara secluded for two miser- 
 able hours with her reluctant pupil. 
 
 David listened and grew wrathful. 
 
 *'Why don't you teach her yourself?" 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 117 
 
 **I — good Lord! It's not in my line," said 
 George, staring. 
 
 "It's not in Clara's line either," said David, 
 shortly. 
 
 '*My mother tried for some time, and said it 
 made her quite ill. I suppose Lily must do lessons 
 with some one," said George, helplessly. 
 
 David was silent, but his silence was fraught 
 with meaning. 
 
 The next day he caught Lily and held her, as 
 she dashed past him in the hall with red eyes, 
 carrying her slate. 
 
 **Let me go. Uncle David!" 
 
 *'I won't — I want you, Lily." 
 
 "Let her go, please, David," said Clara's 
 authoritative voice. "She is being sent to her 
 room." 
 
 "Is she? What for?" said David. His glance 
 at his cousin Clara was more fiery than he knew, 
 and Clara quailed. 
 
 "Put me down. Uncle David. I'm not a baby, 
 and I don't want to be carried," gasped the culprit, 
 between sobs and fright. 
 
 "As your uncle seems to think you may be 
 punished unjustly, Lily," said Clara, swelling with 
 offended dignity, "you can show him your slate, 
 and tell him what you have done." 
 
 Lily hesitated, then a gleam of alarmed amuse- 
 ment stole into her long-lashed eyes, still wet 
 with tears. She stood on one leg, turned her 
 
118 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 right foot round her left ankle, and held out the 
 slate. 
 
 "What is this?" 
 
 **A\mt Clara wrote *'Lily has not been good 
 to-day'* on my slate, and told me to take it to 
 Granny; and — and I rubbed out the not.** 
 
 "It was the deceit I thought most of," said 
 Clara, impressively. *'As she was going away, 
 pretending obedience, a sudden thought struck 
 me, for I happened to see her wet finger, and I 
 insisted on looking at the slate. She was hop- 
 ing her grandmamma would praise her for being 
 good on false pretences." 
 
 "I wasn't," said Lily, "and grandmamma never 
 praises me." 
 
 "What did you do it for?" 
 
 Lily hung her head. 
 
 "For fun." 
 
 "You said you were sorry, and now you are 
 smiling, Lily. I don't believe you know the 
 meaning of repentance." 
 
 "I do," sobbed Lily. 
 
 "What is it then?" said the inexorable aunt. 
 
 "Being sorry you've done something pleasant, 
 but not till after you've done it," said the 
 culprit. 
 
 Colonel Moore was a disciplinarian, and had 
 no idea of calling its elder's authority in question 
 in the presence of a child. He said in a very 
 gentle tone: 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 119 
 
 **You should not have done it, Lily," and 
 kissed her. 
 
 "If you are going to pet her whenever she is 
 naughty, David," said Clara, as Lily ran upstairs, 
 **I shall have to give up teaching her altogether." 
 
 "I think it would be the best plan," said David, 
 and he walked away without looking at her. 
 
 Clara complained bitterly to her brother and 
 received scant sympathy. 
 
 "Why should you make the poor little beggar 
 her own executioner?" he growled. "You know 
 what a row she'd have got into when my mother 
 read your message. Small blame to her if she 
 tried to outwit you. I don't believe you under- 
 stand her a bit, Clara." 
 
 "It's you who are taken in. I am sorry to say 
 it of her, George, but Lily is one of those artful 
 little girls who know how to get round gentlemen." 
 
 "All the better for her," said George, crossly. 
 
 Clara was about to retort, but she remembered 
 in time that George was a widower, and left the 
 room with an expression of angelic patience. 
 
 The threatened storm burst the day after the 
 seaside picnic, when Clara entered the study, 
 where her brother and David were placidly smok- 
 ing, with the ominous words : 
 
 "George, mamma says— oh, I beg your pardon, 
 David, I did not see you were there. If you 
 please, George, I should like to speak to you." 
 
 "What's the matter?" said the unfortunate 
 
120 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 squire, scenting more domestic embroilments. 
 "Go on, Clara, don't make mysteries." 
 
 "I am far from wishing to make mysteries, 
 George. In fact, perhaps, as it is to do with 
 Lily, it is as well that David should hear the 
 worst." 
 
 David looked up quickly, but George, being 
 more accustomed to his sister's portentous meth- 
 ods of dealing with trifles, smoked on without 
 moving. 
 
 "Lily's diary has been found, George." 
 
 "I didn't know it was lost." 
 
 "It was not lost. Lily had hidden it. I asked 
 her for it this morning, and she pretended she 
 could not find it, so mamma had the day-nursery 
 turned out thoroughly, and it was found carefully 
 tucked away at the very bottom of her play-box." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Mamma says that she could not have be- 
 lieved it possible, unless she had read it with her 
 own eyes, that a girl of ten years old could have 
 written such things." 
 
 "What did she want to read it for?" 
 
 "She read it as a duty. And a most unpleas- 
 ant duty it turned out to be." 
 
 "Have you read it, too?" 
 
 "I have glanced at it. I have not yet had 
 time to read it all," said the conscientious Clara. 
 "I am bound to tell you, George, that what I 
 did read shocked me excessively. Mamma says 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 121 
 
 that in justice to her and to me she thinks you 
 ought to look at it yourself, if only to give you 
 a clearer insight into Lily's character." 
 [ " I am not in the habit of reading other people's 
 private diaries.'* 
 
 "It is absurd to call Lily a person; she is only 
 a child." 
 
 "Where is she?" 
 
 "In mamma's room. Mamma has been reading 
 bits of the journal to her that she may hear how 
 shocking they sound out loud." 
 
 "Go and fetch Lily here, and the journal with 
 her," said George, autocratically. 
 
 "I can't do that, George. She wished you to 
 come upstairs. You must please yourself, of 
 course. I can only tell her I have delivered her 
 message." 
 
 Miss Chilcott left the room, and George turned 
 to David with a groan. 
 
 "These everlasting scenes " 
 
 "Put a stop to them." 
 
 "How can I?" 
 
 "Any way you choose. She's your child. 
 Send her to school if you won't give her to me." 
 
 "David, it goes against the grain to send Delia's 
 little girl away from home." 
 
 "It would go more against the grain with me 
 to see her bullied from morning till night." 
 
 "I'll go upstairs and get the journal and throw 
 the damned thing into the fire, and there'll be 
 
122 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 an end of it,** said George, with the sudden energy 
 of a weak man. 
 
 *' Don't do that,** said David slowly. "I 
 shouldn't wonder if they were right, and reading 
 it might make you understand her better. Look 
 here, George, let me go and get Lily and the diary 
 together, and bring them down here. She'll 
 give me leave to read it fast enough.'* 
 
 "My mother won't let you have either one or 
 the other." 
 
 David gave him a look. "Won't she?** he said, 
 and left the room immediately. 
 
 Old Mrs. Chilcott, in her black gown and white 
 cap, sat in the bay window of her pleasant morn- 
 ing-room, crocheting a shawl; her thin fingers 
 flew in and out of the scarlet wool, her eyes 
 were bent on her work, and her lips were firmly 
 compressed. 
 
 In the middle of the apartment was a music- 
 stool, and on the music-stool was perched Lily, 
 very round-shouldered and heaving with sobs, 
 as she read aloud from a small manuscript book. 
 David perceived that it was the obnoxious 
 journal, and took it gently from his niece's 
 unresisting hands before he spoke. 
 
 "Aunt Lydia, George is very much put out 
 about this affair," he said. "I am going to take 
 Lily down to him.'* 
 
 "I sent a message to tell George to come to m^,'* 
 said Mrs. Chilcott, 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 123 
 
 **And I delivered the message," said Clara, in 
 sepulchral tones. 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Clara," said her mother 
 sharply. "Of course you delivered it. Give me 
 the diary, David, I prefer to show it to my son 
 myself.'* 
 
 David put the diary in his pocket. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Aunt Lydia, but you may take it 
 I am carrying out George's own wishes. With 
 your permission Lily had better come with me 
 now." 
 
 Mrs. Chilcott glared at her nephew and David 
 returned the look steadily. 
 
 She knew that opposition was useless, and 
 said no more ; the sharp click of her needles never 
 ceased for a moment. 
 
 Colonel Moore led Lily downstairs, and, entering 
 the study, closed the door. 
 
 She stood on one leg in her favourite attitude, 
 with a miserable frightened little face, and twisted 
 her small fingers nervously together. 
 
 Her father could not bear to look at her, so 
 he stared at the carpet, with a very undecided 
 expression of countenance, and pulled at his 
 heavy yellow moustache. 
 
 Lily stole a glance at her uncle, who had 
 returned to his arm-chair, and something in his 
 look made the child spring across the room to 
 him, with a great sob, and hide her face upon the 
 breast of his rough tweed coat. 
 
124 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 David let her have her cry out, until he felt 
 the long-drawn sobs dying away; then he lifted 
 a very pale and woebegone little face from his 
 shoulder, and, discarding the small and grimy 
 handkerchief she was clutching in one doll-like 
 hand, he dried her eyes very carefully with his 
 own large white one. 
 
 "Lily, will you let daddy and me read the poor 
 little journal?" he whispered, holding his frail 
 burden closely to him, and brushing the elfin 
 face with his moustache. 
 
 In her relief and gratitude for his gentleness 
 and sympathy Lily was only too ready to say 
 yes. She consented eagerly, caring little what 
 her uncle and father might do, so that they were 
 not visibly displeased with her. For her quick 
 observation had shown her that George Chilcott, 
 though depressed, did not look angry. 
 
 She glanced timidly from one to the other of 
 the arbitrators of her fate, unaware that these 
 two big men's hearts were melting with love 
 and pity, for the dead woman's sake, whose 
 legacy she was to both. 
 
 The library was a very large room, and at the 
 further end stood an immense sofa, furnished 
 with soft square cushions. David picked her up, 
 carried her across and deposited her among 
 them. 
 
 **Curl up here and go to sleep," he said. **You 
 will be worn out after so many tears." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 125 
 
 She laid her little pale cheek obediently on the 
 cushion, and closed her eyes. When she opened 
 them again she saw her father and uncle pacing 
 up and down the verandah outside, but she could 
 not hear what they said, and presently, as David 
 had expected, she fell asleep from sheer exhaus- 
 tion, too much spent with weeping to be able to 
 conjecture what they would do with her or her 
 diary. 
 
 The journal had been kept at irregular intervals 
 for about three months. It was an unlucky pur- 
 chase of Lily's own, commented upon approv- 
 ingly at the time by her relatives, who had taken 
 her to shop in Ilverton. Apparently Lily's notions 
 of diary-keeping and autobiography were some- 
 what confused. She began by obligingly recount- 
 ing her origin, obviously basing her style upon 
 the opening chapter of Gulliver's Travels 
 — a book generally considered improving 
 for children, though it is hard to know 
 why. 
 
 **My father has a large estate in Devonshire. 
 I am his only daughter, but he has a son some- 
 what older than me. The charge of maintaining 
 me being somewhat great for a narrow fortune, 
 my Aunt and Grandmother reside with us and 
 assist my father in maintaining me and applying 
 me close to my studies. 
 
 ** Unlike most children and especially my Cousin 
 
126 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 Philippa, who I must add is also somewhat my 
 senior by 6 years and my intimut friend, I spend 
 my lesure moments reading the best authors all 
 I can get, viz. Miss Yonge, Walter Scott, Ander- 
 son's fairy tales, the Bab ballads, the Wide Wide 
 World, Shakespeare's Lamb's tales and many 
 other standard works." 
 
 The stilted style proving too great an effort, 
 it was more or less abandoned after two or three 
 pages, laboriously inscribed in Lily's best round 
 hand. The writing degenerated into a hurried 
 but legible scrawl — Lily's thoughts obviously 
 transcribed without an effort. 
 
 "My Father has a reddish face and a goldish 
 moustache. I may be predijiced in his favour, 
 but I think him nice-looking, though his nose is 
 rather round at the tip. Hector is a plain likeness 
 of his pattemal parent, but it is to be hopped 
 may improve. Boys are very fortunate as their 
 moustache will some day hide the worst end of 
 their face, this we cannot hope for but are luckily 
 generally better looking than them. Aunt Clara 
 is an exception, her eyes are like glass marbles 
 in a pudding. Granny has black eyes and her face 
 is thoroly mapped out in wrinkles, but she is 
 hansome, for an old person I mean, only her 
 neck is rather baggy. She has a dreadful temper 
 and all the servants hate her except Cook, but 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 127 
 
 Cook says she knows better than to let her see it, 
 so I suppose Cook is the one person she is afraid of. 
 Every one else is afraid of her espechully my 
 poor father, but when I grow up I mean to take 
 him quietly away somewhere with me and my 
 husband, and let him have a happy old age under 
 my roof where Granny shall never set foot. Jane 
 and Eliza have promised to come and live with 
 me, and in return I have promised to invite their 
 young men to tea instead of their having to hide 
 in the shrubbery on Simday evenings. ... My 
 head is very bad to-day. Aunt Clara came to 
 see me in bed last night. She told me Uncle 
 David was coming. He is poor Mamma's brother, 
 but he is Granny's nephew too because Mamma 
 and Daddy were first cousins. When Aunt Clara 
 told me I could not remember the last time he 
 came, the devel tempted me to say I did. It 
 turns out I wasn't bom. Every one is libel to 
 make mistakes. I am to learn a new hymn to 
 punish me. She has acidentilly given me one I 
 know already but I did not tell her. I am writing 
 my diary while I am supposed to be learning it. 
 I hate Aunt Clara. . . . This morning the devel 
 wat at it again tempting me to take three almonds 
 off the sideboard but I only took one. Unfortu- 
 nately I pulled it out of my pocket with my 
 handkerchief at lessons. Whatever I do I am 
 always found out. Hector says some boys are 
 like that, he isn't. I would not have taken it 
 
128 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 only in revenge because 2 days running I have 
 had no dessert for bad behaviour, I was sent to 
 bed, one never knows what a day may bring 4th. 
 I wish Aunt Clara would not come and see me in 
 bed. Cook says it is very bad for me to cry every 
 night. . . . Yesterday Daddy took me to Church 
 and I was very good indeed. I mean in my inside, 
 I felt good, espechully when the organ played 
 and we sang Abide with me. Aunt Clara had a 
 cold and could not come. Wishing to please God 
 I tried to be sorry, but I wasn't really. She sings 
 very loud and out of tune, and pokes me if I get 
 in a reveree. . . . Aunt Clara caught me in the 
 pantry. I was laughing at Macpherson's jokes. 
 He is a very witty man. He likes to have a crack 
 with me. This is Scotch. She rowed me about 
 it in bed for hours and hours and I cried so my 
 head is dreadful this morning. Granny says 
 children don't know what headaches mean. I 
 smiled to myself. When no one is looking I can 
 be as sarkastic as Granny. ... I had a nice 
 long think last night. I have several private 
 thinks, which make me happy when I am all 
 alone. One is about a game Philippa and I used 
 to have. We played I was found out to be Cousin 
 Catherine's child and she was found out to be 
 me. She told me all the things she would say to 
 Granny and Aunt Clara (she is as brave as a lion) 
 and how Cousin Catherine would pet me, and let 
 me sleep in her room, and not eat fat or milk 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 129 
 
 puddings, and read all the books at Shepherd's 
 Rest. Philippa is too old for games now but she 
 has promised to tell me all her secrets so I don't 
 mind. I feel rather old for games myself. . . . 
 Uncle David has been to see Hector and Hector 
 has written to tell me he is splendid, he tipped 
 Hector £2, I hope he will tip me, but people never 
 seem to think of girls wanting money. When 
 I am grown up I shall frequently tip girls and not 
 advise them how to spend it. He tipped Hector's 
 three chums, Browne and Noble and Skinner £1 
 each. All the boys knew who he was and cheered 
 him like anything, and Hector said he was proud 
 of him. Aunt Clara would read the letter though 
 I said it was private. She made me learn ' Pride, 
 ugly pride.' . . . When they were at dinner I 
 fetched the book of Plato that I mustn't read, 
 from poor Mamma's bookcase, and read about 
 the death of Socrates which always makes me sad 
 but agreeable. There is a dry flower on the 
 page so I know poor Mamma must have liked it 
 too. He does not appear to have said many 
 prayers. He just screwed hisself up and died. 
 It is what we must all come to. Determined to 
 be a philosopher. . . . Last night my think was 
 about winning a V.C. for myself. The house was 
 on fire and I saved every one by my presence of 
 mind. As it hapened the King and Queen was 
 there, so my gallantry was rewarded. Aunt 
 Clara had to stand by and see it done, which is the 
 
130 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 part of this think I like best. . . . Uncle David 
 is come ; he is like Edgar Ravenswood but not so 
 melancholy. Granny does not like him though 
 he is her nephew. He does not like Granny and 
 Aunt Clara but he is very polite. Daddy would 
 be happy if he could now Uncle David is here. I 
 always know when he tries to make jokes to 
 make things go off well. I think this is pathet- 
 ick, as he is not really a witty man like Macpher- 
 son. . . . Uncle David has not tipped me but I 
 don't mind as he pets me all the time. I am 
 very happy indeed. . . We went to the sea and 
 paddled. Uncle David took me on his shoulder. 
 Though I am far too old for this I enjoyed it. 
 A person named Lady Grace petted me. I ate 
 two meringues and felt rather sick. The ends of 
 Uncle David's moustache are curled, he does this 
 with soap. He has a servant to wash and dress 
 him. When I grow up I shall marry Uncle David 
 if it is not illiggle. . . . Aunt Clara says she has 
 been obliged to tell Uncle David how naughty 
 I am. I wish I was dead. . . . Aunt Clara has 
 asked to see my diary, and there's no fire so I 
 can't bum it. I shall pretend I have lost it, and 
 hide it in my play box. ... I have written a 
 letter to poor Mamma and buried it in my own 
 garden as deep as I could. Perhaps God will 
 let her read it, and in it I have asked her to come 
 and fetch me. I don't know what else to 
 do. . . ." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 131 
 
 The two men looked at each other in silence 
 across this revelation of a child's mind. 
 
 "And I thought she was only a baby," said 
 George, with a groan. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Philippa was gone, and Catherine sat alone in 
 her little garden at Shepherd's Rest, mechanically 
 gazing down the narrow path before her cottage; 
 upon the rim of turf freshly studded with defiant 
 daisies since yesterday's mowing; upon the 
 edging of pinks, green buds bursting into white 
 bloom in a forest of grey-blue leaf and stem; upon 
 the long line of quivering emerald blades which 
 heralded the arrival of the brilliant gladioli; 
 and the row of standard roses above them. 
 
 Her view of the garden path was bounded 
 by the cherry-tree she had planted on Philippa's 
 fourth birthday, and by a flowering tree-lupin, a 
 great snow queen showering white blossom above 
 a group of giant oriental poppies, scarlet and 
 black. 
 
 In the midst of the beauty she loved, and the 
 garden she had created, the words. Behold, your 
 house is left unto you desolate, rang in her ears. 
 
 What was the meaning of this dear low red roof, 
 those broad eaves where the house-martins were 
 darting in and out of humbler homes in the shel- 
 ter of hers, of the brown porch curtained with 
 
 132 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 133 
 
 clematis, the warm cob walls, gay and sweet with 
 roses and honeysuckle, if they did not mean home 
 to Philippa? 
 
 Catherine asked herself this question, almost 
 startled by the pang of grief and indignation 
 which assailed her at the thought that her child 
 held cheap this rose-clad comer of the west. 
 
 In the course of years, the home, valued at first 
 only because it sheltered the one she loved best 
 in all the world, had become dear for its own 
 sake to Catherine. Had she treasured the casket 
 and lost the jewel it contained ? 
 
 Her beloved child was sometimes uncertain, 
 capricious, exacting ; often unresponsive ; but cer- 
 tain was the consolation afforded by that hum- 
 ble cottage, and garden, and farm; certain 
 the dreamy joy of the sunset over the hills, the 
 outline of the solemn pines, the blue haze of 
 distance, the white foam of orchard blossom 
 against a turquoise sky, the sunny garden with 
 its shady comers of fig-tree and fernery, the silent 
 wood, the brook bubbling eternally in the meadow, 
 the cool restfulness of the oak parlour with its 
 deep window-seat and shelves of chosen books, 
 its memories of the warmth and brightness of 
 wood-fire and lamp on winter evenings, of sun- 
 blinds and rosebowls in summer days. 
 
 For sixteen years the world had passed this 
 comer by, and Catherine had hugged her hap- 
 piness, forgetful of trouble, believing all her 
 
134 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 responsibilities bounded by the thatched walls 
 of her garden, and shut in by the high red banks 
 of the Devon hedgerows that enclosed the little 
 farm. 
 
 Within these sheltered precincts how faithful 
 she had been to her duties; how she had fought 
 against the idleness and dreaming congenial to 
 her nature; how conscientious, how passionately 
 tender had been her guardianship of her child. 
 
 Perhaps poor mortals would seldom fail in 
 duty were duty always cut and dried and certain. 
 It may be the added difficulty of discovering 
 where duty lies that begets hesitation and doubt, 
 and consequent half-heartedness in performance. 
 
 It had all been so simple when Philippa was 
 little. When a mother is nurse and playmate! 
 and oracle in one, and the child is still a child, it is ) 
 always simple. But later, who is to solve the/ 
 problems that arise? 
 
 Not the woman-child, impatient of authority, 
 yearning for she knows not what, conscious of 
 having outgrown the nest, yet fretting to suspect 
 herself of ingratitude. Not the mother, half 
 afraid of the stranger who is growing up beside 
 her in place of the helpless babe who was once 
 laid in her bosom; half fearful lest her love be 
 weakness, her grief selfishness, and her bewilder- 
 ment only want of faith in her child and her God. 
 
 Yet when the mutual early dependence has 
 been whole-hearted this spiritual rupture must 
 
 I 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 135 
 
 be endured, must be felt by both. By the motherv 
 in proportion to her capacity for spiritual suffer-, 
 ing; by the child, perhaps only a little, a very- 
 little at the moment, but almost certainly again! 
 later, in the retrospect, when the mother, it may 
 be, can feel no more. 
 
 Catherine's thoughts wandered from the garden, 
 at which she gazed so earnestly, to the parting 
 of that morning, when Philippa — afflicted with 
 the self-consciousness of youth, in addition to 
 her large inheritance of the Adelstane dignity — 
 had avoided all demonstration of farewell as far 
 as possible. 
 
 "Mother, please, don't come to the station to 
 see me off. Let me drive Roper in the pony 
 carriage down to the Abbey this morning, and 
 start with Cousin Augusta, as she said." 
 
 **Very well, my darling," said Catherine, and 
 added humorously, *'but if I promised not to 
 disgrace you by breaking down, Phil?" 
 
 "How can you be sure you won't break down?'* 
 said Philippa suspiciously. "No, no, and that 
 horrid Lady Grace will be there." 
 
 "Don't you like Lady Grace? I thought her 
 so pleasant and amiable," said Catherine, in 
 surprise. 
 
 "She looks down on me, and she is always 
 shut up in Cousin Augusta's boudoir, talking and 
 laughing by the hour together," said Philippa 
 jealously. "She treats me as though I were a 
 
136 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 little girl. One comfort is she'll have to go off 
 to her horrid old flat directly we go to Lon- 
 don, then I shall have Cousin Augusta all to 
 myself.'* 
 
 Catherine knew not whether to sigh or to smile 
 at this fervent aspiration, so certain w^as she 
 that it must prove illusory. 
 
 Philippa had stipulated so earnestly for no 
 parting words, that her mother was almost afraid 
 to speak for fear of disturbing her easily ruffled 
 composure. 
 
 *'It's bad enough to have to go through it all 
 with" Aunt Dulcinea, one expects her to cry over 
 one every time one comes back safely from a 
 stroll round the garden; but I can't stand it 
 from you, mummy," she said impatiently; "you 
 know I mean to be as careful and good as any- 
 thing — there, I promise. And I'll write to you 
 regularly. Don't, don't begin reminding me not 
 to get my feet wet and things like that." 
 
 "No, no, I won't," said Catherine, and she 
 swallowed a thousand anxious injunctions, con- 
 tenting herself with lecturing Roper upon the 
 care of Philippa's health. "Only remember, my 
 darling, I am always here, ready to fly to you at 
 any moment if you want me, or get into the 
 slightest trouble or difficulty.** 
 
 "Mother, as if I didn't know that. Am I going 
 to the end of the world?'* cried Philippa; and 
 the last careless kiss was given, the bright face 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 137 
 
 smiled from the gate upon the sad face in the 
 porch, and the child was gone. 
 
 Aunt Dulcinea departed on her usual round 
 of visits, after warmly offering to remain and 
 bear Catherine company. 
 
 ''But, indeed, dear, I believe it would be 
 better for you to come out with me. What a 
 fine opportunity for you to begin a little good 
 work! Reading to poor Granny Weston, for 
 instance, who never leaves her bed. It would 
 take your thoughts off the child. Oh, Catherine, 
 I can't help wishing you had gone with her," 
 said Miss Dulcinea, *'I am so afraid you will 
 fret, alone with a dull old person like me." 
 
 * ' I have too much to do here to go out in the 
 morning. Auntie. That is your work, to do the 
 visiting and reading," said Catherine, smiling, 
 "and I Hke very much to be alone now and then. 
 You know Philippa has scarcely been at home 
 at all since Cecil and Augusta came back. No, no, 
 you must toddle round as usual. Let me see, it's 
 your day for lunching with old Miss Nutt, and 
 tea at the parsonage. I will send the pony-carriage 
 for you at about six." 
 
 "Well, if you are sure you don't mind, darling. 
 I don't like to disappoint Miss Nutt, and the 
 luncheon prepared, and all. And she will want 
 to hear about the picnic, and Philippa* s going to 
 London, you know, and everything." 
 
 Catherine was not very sorry to see Miss Dul- 
 
138 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 cinea off. She helped her tie on the brown mush- 
 room hat which hung in the hall, found her walk- 
 ing-stick, and saw that the old-fashioned round 
 basket she carried on her arm, in the shelter of 
 her grey cloak, was properly filled with the little 
 gifts the poor lady loved to distribute. 
 
 But when this old sister of mercy had de- 
 parted, instead of going at once to her daily work 
 in the dairy or elsewhere, Catherine went upstairs, 
 and looked sadly about her empty silent room, 
 and at Philippa's little white bed next her own. 
 Inanimate things that have no voices when 
 human beings are present speak very loudly 
 sometimes in their absence. To Catherine's 
 listening heart a thousand voices surged in the 
 silence. She felt in this moment a melancholy 
 foretaste of what life would be when her child, 
 in the course of nature, passed altogether out of 
 her daily existence. The thought was intolera- 
 ble, and she went downstairs and into the garden 
 to escape it. There she sat upon the bench be- 
 neath the fig-tree, and, unmindful of the brightness 
 of the summer morning, shed a few quiet tears. 
 
 The click of the latch of the garden gate caused 
 her to look up in surprise. Visitors did not 
 often find their way up to Shepherd's Rest in 
 the morning. 
 
 "Oh, David, I am very glad to see you. It was 
 good of you to come," she cried, hastening to 
 meet him, *'you knew that she had started?" 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 139 
 
 "She — ^who — oh, Philippa! I beg your pardon. 
 Of course I knew she was going to-day, but I am 
 afraid I have come on selfish errands of my own," 
 he said, looking down upon her with some concern, 
 as he noted the signs of weeping on her soft pale 
 face. "Why, you are not so unhappy over it as 
 all that, little Catherine, are you?'* 
 
 "I am afraid you will laugh at me," said 
 Catherine, and she tried to smile through her 
 tears. 
 
 "You are laughing at yourself! Tears because 
 Philippa has left you for how long — a week — 
 three weeks — a month? Why, Catherine, you are 
 growing morbid, shut up in this little nest." 
 
 "Perhaps so," she said wistfully. "It sounds 
 absurd, I know, but even now I long to pack up 
 and follow her, if I were not ashamed " 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "You heard her say — you know — she wanted 
 to go by herself," Catherine faltered. 
 
 "To be sure; so would you and I at her age," 
 he said warmly. "She is too old to be treated Hke 
 a baby." 
 
 "She seems little more than a baby to me some- 
 times," Catherine admitted. 
 
 "Nonsense, she is a woman. Why, she 
 would make two of you! And a very princess 
 of dignity. Far better able to take care of 
 herself than you are," he said, smiHng. Then 
 his manner changed to remorseful tenderness. 
 
140 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 "Am I very, very unsympathetic? Poor little 
 Catherine." 
 
 *'0h, David, David, you are so like Delia 
 when you speak like that. It makes me able to 
 talk to you more openly than I could to others, 
 for I feel almost as though I were talking to her 
 once more. I am so afraid I have been selfish, 
 not giving Philippa proper chances, not facing the 
 world as I should. I torment myself thinking 
 so, and now I feel so unfit to begin. I have no 
 one to advise me — ^who understands," said Cath- 
 erine, with trembling lip. "Perhaps old Lady 
 Sarah might, but she always said I was wrong to 
 shut myself up here. You are a man of the world, 
 David, what do you think I ought to have done?" 
 
 "What does it matter what you ought to have 
 done? It is no use to think about that, since 
 you can't go back," said David decidedly. "You 
 did the best you could, according to your judg- 
 ment at the time ; and I should like to know how 
 you could have done better, or how you could 
 wish Philippa different. You have brought her 
 up splendidly. She is at home among her father's 
 people, and familiar with her future inheritance. 
 Talk of English girls, she is the very ideal of an 
 English girl. Fair and healthy, and transparently 
 innocent and sincere." 
 
 "Oh, David, how you comfort me! Yes, my 
 darling is all that," cried Catherine, flushing a 
 little proudly. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 141 
 
 *'What more do you want?" he said, ''you've 
 helped to make her all that. And yet you are 
 afraid to trust her away from you for a few 
 days!" 
 
 "I am not exactly afraid of trusting her. In- 
 deed she is very high-principled — in her way," 
 said Catherine, smiling, "far more anxious to do 
 the right thing than I am myself. She reminds 
 me a little of Cecil." 
 
 '*I cannot see the resemblance," said David. 
 ** Cecil is a good fellow, but he is as cold as an 
 iceberg, and as dull as ditchwater. No, no, she 
 may owe her beautiful profile to the Adelstanes, 
 but she owes her high principles to you." 
 
 "I have done my best," said Catherine wistfully, 
 **I am shocked to remember how few principles 
 I began life with. No one told me anything. I 
 have had to evolve them from my own experience 
 and convictions." 
 
 '* Those are the principles to which one can 
 never be false," he said gravely. 
 
 There was a pause, and then he spoke with 
 something of Delia's eagerness and certainty of 
 sympathy. 
 
 "And now may I speak of my own troubles? 
 For to tell you the truth I came to ask consolation 
 and not to administer it. We are rather in a 
 tangle down at Bridescombe." 
 
 "Is it little Lily?" 
 
 "Yes, How did you guess?" 
 
142 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 "I saw signs of something brewing with Clara 
 at the picnic. I suppose what you said the other 
 day opened my eyes. And I watched Lily. She 
 was so unlike her usual little moping self when she 
 was playing with you. But you are right, David. 
 The child is not happy and she is not well. To 
 be sure, she said she had a headache!'* 
 
 "She always has a headache," said David 
 bluntly. "Catherine, I want you to take her in 
 for a bit." 
 
 " I ! " said Catherine, startled. 
 
 "Will you?" 
 
 "Will I? Oh, David, can you ask? Delia's 
 child! Is it your idea?" 
 
 "Well," he said, laughing quietly, "I may say 
 it is Lily's idea." 
 
 "But what will Mrs. Chilcott say?" 
 
 "You are as bad as George! But he will not 
 consult his mother about this. He wishes it as 
 much as I do. He has just discovered that Lily's 
 little noddle is not so empty as he supposed. Her 
 poor little journal has come to light, and with it 
 what Clara is pleased to call the revelation of 
 Lily's true character. Oh, Catherine, as I read, 
 the years seemed to roll backward, and I heard 
 my little sister Delia talking to me. Poor old 
 George is quite overcome by the discovery that a 
 worm will turn. In other words, that a child 
 who is terrorised morning, noon, and night resorts 
 to fibbing," 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 143 
 
 "David, if Clara were set over me- 
 
 ** Exactly. So should I. But poor old George 
 wouldn't. Partly because he's innately honest 
 and partly because he's innately stupid. So he's 
 as miserable as possible. Determined to rescue 
 Lily's morals, and not knowing how to do it 
 without seeming to insult his mother. So I 
 suggested coming up to consult you — unbe- 
 known, of course, to Aunt Lydia. At least, I 
 hope so!" 
 
 The humorous alarm of his expression caused 
 Catherine to reflect that after all, David being 
 but mortal man, he probably disliked the prospect 
 of a scene with two angry women as much as 
 poor George himself. 
 
 "How would it be," she said — "you know they 
 think me very artful, and perhaps I am a little — 
 if / came down and asked for Lily to stay with 
 me while Philippa was away? Then they could 
 blame me, and it would be less uncomfortable 
 for you and George. And nothing need be ex- 
 plained to Lily." 
 
 "Catherine, you are an angel!" He took her 
 hand and kissed it, and she was so unused — poor 
 Catherine — to the ghost of a caress, that the 
 gentle gallantry of his salute caused her to blush 
 with confusion. 
 
 "Perhaps she will console you a Httle," he said 
 presently, "for Philippa's absence." 
 
 She shook her head, smiled, and sighed, looking 
 
144 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 round the little garden which lay before them 
 in the full warmth of the morning sunshine, 
 though the bench where they were seated was 
 pleasantly shaded. But she saw only the vision 
 of her daughter's bright face, all smiles and 
 gladness — as she had seen it last. Yet she thought 
 Philippa had cast a backward glance over her 
 shoulder as she turned away; as though she, 
 too, were conscious that she was leaving her 
 childhood behind her for ever, and was taking a 
 mute, hurried, half-frightened farewell. 
 
 With a start Catherine's attention was recalled 
 to the guelder rose nodding over the roof of the 
 garden shed, upon which David's eyes were 
 fixed. 
 
 *'We used to call them snowballs," he said, 
 indicating the round white blossoms with the 
 point of his stick. "What's the real name?" 
 
 She told him. 
 
 *' Philippa called them porridge-balls, I don't 
 know why," said Catherine, and the foolish 
 recollection filled her eyes with tears again; she 
 saw the baby Philippa running over the little 
 lawn in her white frock and red shoes so very 
 plainly just then. 
 
 ** Suppose I invited myself to lunch with you," 
 said David suddenly. 
 
 ''Will you? It would be a great pleasure. But 
 I must order something more substantial. Au- 
 gusta says I Hve like a Spartan." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 145 
 
 "She has not many opportunities of judging, 
 I should gather.'* 
 
 "No, she has not. But she lunched here once 
 and that was enough. And then Roper was to the 
 fore. Now I have only my village maiden, and 
 I am afraid I prefer my own cooking to hers. 
 You are not like the others to be shocked!" 
 
 His laugh rang through the quiet cottage as 
 he followed Catherine, stooping his tall head to 
 enter the low doorway. 
 
 The little maid had arranged Catherine's 
 frugal lunch on the round table in the window 
 of the old-fashioned entrance: once farm kitchen 
 and living-room, now by courtesy the hall. The 
 day was hot, but the thickness of the cob walls 
 and high-pitched roof made the interior of the 
 cottage cool, and the square lattice stood open. 
 The honeysuckle blew in and swung round the 
 frame which held the living picture of blooming 
 garden and green countryside. On the snowy 
 cloth stood a home-baked loaf, a plate of let- 
 tuce, a red pitcher of milk, some frozen yellow 
 butter, and an iced junket heaped with clotted 
 cream. 
 
 **A refrigerator is my pet luxury," said Cath- 
 erine. "It is extraordinary to me how many 
 people in small country houses grudge the expense 
 of ice, and are contented to speckle their own 
 and their visitors' cups of tea with sour milk 
 and curdling cream. I was going to make 
 
146 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 myself an omelette, David, but you shall have 
 something more substantial." 
 
 She flitted cheerfully away to the kitchen and 
 larder, surprised at her own good spirits. *' There 
 is something in a man's presence which dis- 
 perses the primness and dulness of a house like 
 magic," she thought to herself; and the little 
 handmaid thought so too, as she followed her 
 mistress in a flutter of pleasure and surprise, and 
 anxiety that the gentleman should have every- 
 thing he could possibly desire. 
 
 The luncheon was actually a merry one, though 
 Catherine would not have conceived it possible 
 that the first meal she sat down to after Philippa's 
 departure could be a cheerful one. 
 
 There was a curious sense of comradeship; 
 a restful certainty that her thoughts could be 
 translated into words without fear of misunder- 
 standing; she was used to being continually on 
 guard in the presence of her child, before whom 
 it was inexpedient to speak openly of all that 
 was in her heart and mind ; and who was besides 
 a severe though unconscious critic of her mother's 
 words and ways, as Catherine was ruefully aware. 
 Miss Dulcinea heard imperfectly, was apt to 
 require much explanation, and given to retailing 
 very innocently matter too insignificant in it- 
 self not to gain in the telling. Conversation had, 
 in fact, to be suited to Miss Dulcinea's age quite 
 as carefully as to Philippa's youth. The two 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 147 
 
 could say what they chose to her; it was her 
 business to console, to advise, and to listen. But 
 here was equality of age, independence, and 
 understanding. 
 
 Catherine forgot her unhappiness and David 
 his anxiety about little Lily ; they talked of Delia 
 — not sadly, but recalling characteristics of her 
 youth, and the memories they had in common; 
 and presently David spoke a little, and briefly, 
 of his work, enough to show Catherine that it 
 absorbed the greater part of his interest in life. As 
 he talked it seemed to her as though her horizon 
 widened and lifted, and she caught a glimpse of a 
 great world teeming with life and action, beyond 
 this little silent rustic Paradise of hers, the world 
 upon which she had turned her back in her youth. 
 
 How small and petty and narrow must her 
 existence seem to him, she reflected sorrowfully, 
 oblivious of the charm with which the haven of a 
 settled home is invested to the mind of a life- 
 long wanderer. 
 
 After luncheon David smoked a cigarette in 
 the garden, and listened to the loud song of a 
 thrush in the cherry-tree. He reflected rather 
 dreamily and tenderly upon the peace of this 
 quiet cottage among the hills, and wished, per- 
 haps, for the space of a few seconds, that he had 
 such a shelter waiting for him somewhere in the 
 wide world. Poor little Catherine! David was in 
 years actually her senior, and yet he was acutely 
 
148 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 conscious of the fact that her Hfe was over, while 
 his lay before him yet, full of possibilities and 
 hope and ambitions. 
 
 "Her voice is plaintive," he thought, *'even 
 though it is sweet, and there is a wistful look 
 in her eyes, which were beautiful eyes once and 
 are beautiful yet, though the lustre of youth has 
 departed. What a lovely colour she had in 
 those days when we went primrosing — seventeen 
 years ago — eighteen, by Jove! How pale and 
 gentle she is now. Poor little Catherine!'* 
 
 He thought indulgently of her grief at parting 
 with her daughter even for a few weeks. It was 
 natural that she should grudge the sharing of 
 her treasure with others, just as it was natural 
 the child should wish to go. 
 
 His heart was very tender towards Catherine 
 as she came out presently, dressed for walking, 
 and they set forth together on their mission to 
 Bridescombe. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 Instead of allowing Lord John Trelleck to es- 
 cort her back to town immediately after Whit- 
 suntide, as Augusta had planned, Lady Sarah 
 chose to remain at the Abbey until the very 
 day when Lady Adelstane's engagements obliged 
 her to return to town. Lady Sarah did not, 
 however, propose to travel en famille, and there- 
 fore departed by the early morning train, with 
 her dog, her maid, and her footman in attendance; 
 after taking an unusually affectionate farewell of 
 her grandson, who was detained in the country 
 by business, and of her hostess. 
 
 "I like to travel alone, Augusta, and not to 
 feel it necessary to bawl across a railway carriage ; 
 nor to be bawled at, for that matter, even by the 
 pleasantest companion in the world, as I am 
 sure, my love, you must be. As soon as you are 
 settled down, send Philippa to see me. I shall like 
 to see how she looks when she is properly dressed, 
 and I hope that farouche manner of hers will 
 presently disappear. Be sure you don't have her 
 stuffed with a quantity of useless lessons. Take 
 her about and let her amuse herself." 
 
 149 
 
150 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 **That is exactly what I mean to do," said 
 Augusta comfortably. For once she was quite 
 in accord with Lady Sarah. 
 
 "Of course, she is not out/* she said, suddenly 
 mindful of her promise to Catherine, "but there 
 are many little things a girl can very well enjoy 
 before she comes out." 
 
 "My dear, I was married at her age," said 
 Lady Sarah, who was never tired of recalling the 
 circumstance; "I have been thinking who there is 
 that might do for Philippa. Of course my poor 
 cousin Kentisbury*s boy comes to one's mind. 
 He has had a long minority, and, though his 
 father was a sad scamp, this young man has been 
 very carefully brought up by his mother, and 
 she is dying to get him safely married, or if she is 
 not, she ought to be; for he is just at the age 
 when young men are apt to make fools of them- 
 selves. I will give her a hint. I have no doubt 
 he is just the husband for Philippa, though I 
 can't say I know him at all yet." 
 
 But Augusta had met the young man twice, 
 so felt justified in stating that she knew him 
 very well indeed, and that he was perfectly 
 charming. 
 
 "The fact is, I intend to get him to a boy and 
 girl dinner party for the Lundys' dance," she 
 said, immediately adding his. name to a mental 
 list she had compiled. "That is to be quite a 
 small affair, her girl is only seventeen." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 161 
 
 "I thought Catherine stipulated for no dances,'* 
 said Lady Sarah maliciously. 
 
 ''Of course I must use my discretion — when it 
 comes to boy and girl affairs," said Augusta, 
 with dignity. ''One would not take her to a 
 baU." 
 
 **I wish you would toddle over to Bridescombe 
 with me," said Mrs. Rait confidentially to Lady 
 Grace Trumoin. "Gussie has made one excuse 
 after another until there is only this morning 
 left, and I really am keen on going to look at 
 George Chilcott's stud-farm before we start." 
 
 **I should be only too pleased if Augusta would 
 not mind." 
 
 "My dear good girl, she's a hundred things 
 distracting her, besides making sure that Lady 
 Sarah does not miss her train. And I must posi- 
 tively get a little exercise before the motor comes 
 round." 
 
 "So must I, now I come to think of it. What 
 a shame to return to London on a morning like 
 this," said Lady Grace. 
 
 They took a pleasant way under the limes, 
 beside the wide avenue that led to the village. 
 A laurel hedge formed a sheltering wall on the 
 one side of the footpath, and the lime branches 
 swept the grass bank on the other. 
 
 The day was breathlessly hot, but the thick 
 foliage arching overhead permitted no ray of 
 
152 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 sun to penetrate the cool twilight of this green 
 colonnade. 
 
 "Why do you go back to town then? Come 
 North with us ; we shall have a pleasant trip. No 
 stuffy railway for us," said the cheerful Blanche. 
 "Ralte is as pretty in its way as this. No — 
 not so pretty,** she added conscientiously, "but 
 at least a million times better than London!" 
 
 "You are very kind, but I am afraid I must 
 return." 
 
 "Come later then. You know, you and I 
 could be very good pals," said Blanche frankly. 
 "As one grows older one finds no companionship 
 so pleasant as that of the people one has known 
 all one's life. Nothing to explain away, and all 
 allusions to the past comprehended. Saves so 
 much trouble," said Blanche, with her jolly 
 laugh. 
 
 Lady Grace was aware that Blanche was in 
 many ways more companionable than Augusta, 
 whose selfishness became at times as fatiguing 
 to witness as to endure. She was also aware that 
 Blanche, though outspoken and rough in her 
 manner, was by no means the eccentric vulgarian 
 that her sister, in conversation with her intmiates, 
 represented her to be. 
 
 Sir Cecil's estimate of his sister-in-law had been 
 powerfully affected by the misquotations of her 
 sayings and doings and the apocryphal anecdotes 
 of her past which Augusta had indulged in for 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 153 
 
 years, without the sHghtest appreciation of her 
 own inaccuracy. But Lady Adelstane's friends 
 were less blind than her husband to her idiosyn- 
 crasies, and were thus apt to discount her remarks. 
 Lady Grace had too much good sense to allow 
 her own calm judgment to be distorted by the 
 prejudices of Augusta. 
 
 She observed the curious fact that the twins 
 differed in character as widely as in appearance. 
 
 Blanche was outwardly self-assertive, though 
 inwardly the very soul of generosity and good 
 nature, while Augusta's amiable manner covered 
 a grasping and tenacious disposition. 
 
 "She cares for nothing and nobody in the 
 world but herself and her own comfort," thought 
 Lady Grace. But she was Augusta's chosen 
 friend of the moment, and had accepted much 
 hospitality from her, and she knew that any 
 display of intimacy with Blanche would be tan- 
 tamount to disloyalty in the eyes of the jealous 
 younger sister. It would not be "playing the 
 game.'* 
 
 Therefore she could not immediately respond 
 to Mrs. Ralt's overtures. 
 
 "Perhaps, later, if you are so kind as to ask 
 me again,'* she said, reflecting that by the end 
 of the summer Augusta's affection would prob- 
 ably have cooled down. 
 
 "You can write and tell me any time you're 
 free,'* said Blanche, winking openly and cheerfully 
 
154 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 at her companion in order to indicate that she 
 understood the situation perfectly, "fit in any 
 odd moments, you know, to suit yourself, between 
 more attractive invitations. Bob and I are a 
 dull couple; but, however, he suits me, and I 
 suit him. The great thing is to marry for com- 
 panionship when all is said and done, since love 
 in the nature of things is bound to be evanescent. 
 I don't know that we ever pretended to be in 
 love with each other. But first we hobnobbed 
 over horses, and now we hobnob over motors. 
 Look here, I will show you a capital short cut to 
 Bridescombe if you don't mind going through 
 the churchyard and across a couple of fields." 
 
 *'Far pleasanter than the high road," said 
 Lady Grace. 
 
 "I know no prettier churchyard," said Blanche, 
 threading her way among the quiet hillocks and 
 old moss-grown headstones to the turnstile in the 
 low wall, over which the foxgloves were nodding 
 in profusion above the fern, on the outskirts of 
 the adjacent orchard. *'Here we are on George 
 Chilcott*s land, and very good land it is, poor 
 fellow." 
 
 **Why poor fellow? He appears to be well off. 
 I like George Chilcott," said Lady Grace languidly. 
 
 "Then I wish you'd marry him. Somebody 
 ought to marry him, and if you like him I do not 
 see why it should not be you," said Mrs. Rait, 
 with great animation. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 166 
 
 "I should be delighted, of cotirse, but he hasn't 
 asked me." 
 
 "Of course he hasn*t asked you. He's not had 
 a chance. He'd ask you fast enough if he had, 
 I make no doubt. And now I come to think of it," 
 said Blanche, pursuing her idea with great interest, 
 **yo^ would be the very person to tackle that 
 awful mother and sister. Now, do be sensible, 
 Grace; I'm very fond of George Chilcott, and 
 he's one of the best fellows in the world. I always 
 call him Nathaniel, because in him there is no 
 guile; or was it Nicodemus? I declare I forget! 
 Anyway I call him Nathaniel. I'll get him to 
 Rait this summer if you '11 only come. " 
 
 "Of course I'll come," said Lady Grace, and 
 she smiled so calmly that Blanche could not be 
 certain whether she were in jest or in earnest. 
 
 George Chilcott, unaware of these plans for 
 his future happiness, sat wearily in his study, 
 with the local newspaper in his hand, pretending 
 to read ; and wishing that after all he had walked 
 to Shepherd's Rest with David, instead of waiting 
 passively at home to hear the result of his embassy 
 to Catherine. 
 
 Becoming aware of footsteps on the gravel 
 path, he looked up impatiently, expecting to see 
 Clara once more; but instead he perceived Lady 
 Grace, in her pretty summer dress, with a flounced 
 parasol shading her delicate face. Though her 
 features were too thin and too marked for actual 
 
156 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 beauty, her whole appearance was that of an 
 exquisitely well-bred and graceful woman, whose 
 good looks were thrown into high relief by the 
 pronounced plainness of her companion's face 
 and attire. 
 
 George Chilcott came through the" open case- 
 ment to greet them with an acute sensation of 
 relief and pleasure; he had been in the shadow of 
 disgrace with his own womenkind all day, and 
 it was agreeable to meet the sunshine of Lady 
 Grace's charming smile. 
 
 **Do forgive us for turning up at this unseason- 
 able hour. I assure you we were going to ring 
 at the front door-bell. But we're off to-day; 
 Grace to town by the afternoon train, and I to 
 motor with Bob. So as I'd made up my mind 
 to come over before we left, and have a look at the 
 gees, why here we are!" cried Mrs. Rait heartily. 
 
 "I disclaim all responsibility," said Lady Grace 
 gaily. 
 
 At this moment old Mrs. Chilcott, attended 
 by Clara, came round the comer of the house 
 upon them, as they stood in the centre of the 
 path. 
 
 Both ladies wore the severe and mournful aspect 
 of persons who have but recently participated 
 in a painful scene; and as neither was versed in 
 the art of disguising her feelings, both continued 
 to wear it, so that the greeting and shaking hands 
 with Mrs. Rait and the presentation of Lady 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 157 
 
 Grace to old Mrs. Chilcott, whom she had not pre- 
 viously met, were but melancholy ceremonies. 
 
 Mrs. Ralt's cheerful explanations of her early 
 intrusion were received with mournful incredu- 
 lity by Clara and chilling gravity by her mother, 
 and George cut them short. 
 
 ** We'll go at once. Excuse me, 111 get a hat." 
 He dashed in and dashed out again. **It's only a 
 few yards to the stables — but as you are in a 
 hurry " 
 
 ''I think the garden is far more in my line," 
 said Lady Grace, ** perhaps I may be allowed to 
 wait for you here?" she looked at Mrs. Chilcott 
 for permission. 
 
 Mrs. Rait was about to protest, but she sud- 
 denly recollected that for the success of her 
 plans it might be as well that Lady Grace should 
 make acquaintance with her destined mother-in- 
 law. 
 
 "Well — we sha*n't be long. In fact, we daren't 
 be long," she shouted over her shoulder as she 
 strode off beside the squire. 
 
 ''Something disagreeable has happened," 
 thought Lady Grace, who had observed that 
 George did not look at his relatives, and who 
 read the expression of their faces very clearly; 
 and she exerted herself to make conversation 
 of the kind she thought they would prefer. 
 
 "How very beautiful your garden is looking." 
 
 "It is considered pretty, I believe," said Mrs. 
 
158 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 Chilcott sternly, as though she had no opinion 
 on the matter personally. "Of course we do not 
 pretend to compare it with the gardens at the 
 Abbey." 
 
 "I think your roses are even finer. What 
 a magnificent Niphetos. It is my favourite 
 rose." 
 
 **My son is a great gardener. He gives a great 
 deal of attention to his rose-trees." 
 
 "It is an odd thing for a gentleman to do," 
 said Clara solemnly. 
 
 *' It is a fascinating study. I used to bud roses," 
 said Lady Grace. 
 
 "Do you live in the country?" said Clara. 
 
 "Alas, no! I live in a small and solitary flat 
 in town, to which I am returning to-day." 
 
 "Then you cannot have much opportunity for 
 gardening.' 
 
 "I have none at all now, I am sorry to say!" 
 
 "I should have thought a house would have 
 been more private than a flat, if you live alone," 
 said Miss Clara. 
 
 "You are quite right," said Lady Grace, smiling, 
 "but a flat has one convenience — some people 
 think it the only one — you can shut it up and 
 go away." 
 
 Neither of her auditors smiled. 
 
 "Then I cannot see the good of having one, if 
 it is no more use than that," said Clara. 
 
 "Nobody cares to stay at home, I believe, 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 159 
 
 nowadays," said Mrs. Chilcott, without relaxing 
 her disapproving attitude. 
 
 **My brother is going to stay in a flat in Lon- 
 don next week with our relative Colonel David 
 Moore," said Clara; "it is only a furnished flat. 
 I do not think he will be so comfortable as in his 
 own house." 
 
 **I am quite sure he won't," said Lady Grace. 
 
 **It*s in Buckingham Gate Mansions, and it 
 belongs to a brother officer, who has lent it to 
 Colonel Moore." 
 
 **A most convenient situation," said Lady 
 Grace politely. ''Mine is on the other side of the 
 Park — a long way off." 
 
 "I wonder you like to live the wrong side of 
 the Park," said Clara impressively. 
 
 "The wrong side? I don't know why I do," 
 said Lady Grace vaguely ; and thought to herself, 
 "after all, I rather wish I had gone with the 
 others." 
 
 Mrs. Rait did not, as she declared, dare to linger 
 unduly over her inspection of the Bridescombe 
 stud; but walking to the farm was an affair of 
 ten minutes, and the Shire horses had to be 
 examined and discussed, so that nearly three 
 quarters of an hour elapsed before her return, 
 during which time even Lady Grace, who was 
 usually proficient in small talk, had exhausted 
 her conversational powers. She gave vent to 
 something very like a sigh of relief when her 
 
160 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 friend appeared, somewhat overheated by her 
 rapid progress, and chatting loudly with the 
 stalwart squire, whose good humour had been 
 obviously restored in her cheerful company. 
 
 **Must you go? I wish you would stay to 
 luncheon," he cried with much sincerity; for in- 
 deed he dreaded the coming meal, when he must 
 presently sit opposite his offended parent, with 
 his disapproving sister on one side, and his pen- 
 itent child — or, worse still, her vacant chair to re- 
 mind him of her misdeeds — on the other. * ' Won't 
 you stay?" 
 
 *'No, no, it would be more than our places are 
 worth," said Mrs. Rait, shaking hands all round 
 without delay. *'Come, Grace, we must run for 
 it, and it's not weather for running." 
 
 "You had better go through the shrubbery. 
 I'll show you the way. It is by far the coolest 
 path," cried George zealously. 
 
 "Thank you, we will. By the bye, where is 
 Grace's little friend?" said Mrs. Rait, suddenly 
 recollecting her deep-laid schemes. 
 
 George paused imperceptibly before muttering 
 that she was not very well, and his mutter was 
 overborne by Clara's conscientious explanation. 
 
 "Lady Grace has already asked for her. I was 
 sorry to be obliged to tell her that Lily has not 
 been at all good," she said, with a severity in- 
 tended for Lily's father. "And she is consequently 
 in disgrace, and has had to be punished." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 161 
 
 "I can feel for her. We shall be in disgrace 
 when we get back," cried Mrs. Rait, with her 
 loudest laugh. But Lady Grace looked straight 
 before her with an expression which was not 
 lost upon those piercing black eyes set in Mrs. 
 Chilcott*s wrinkled face. Her continuous sharp- 
 ness had hitherto failed to shake her guest's 
 unfailing graciousness in the very slightest degree, 
 and Mrs. Chilcott was piqued; she thought she 
 perceived a vulnerable point at last and attacked 
 without hesitation. 
 
 * * I suppose you disapprove of our old-fashioned 
 methods. I believe nowadays modem children 
 escape all discipline, and are allowed to do and 
 say exactly what they choose," she said with 
 almost an offensive intonation. 
 
 Lady Grace looked at her calmly. *'I disap- 
 prove of the theory of punishment — yes," she 
 said lightly but very distinctly. * * I believe it to be 
 a relic of barbarism. Reform, not revenge — is 
 my motto. But I dare say I am quite wrong, 
 you know," she added with a charming smile. 
 "There are generally two sides to every question, 
 aren't there?" 
 
 George perceived that Mrs. Chilcott was angry ; 
 but his admiration for Lady Grace rose very high. 
 He felt none of the discomfort and alarm which 
 had assailed him in former years, on the rare 
 occasions when Delia had encountered his auto- 
 cratic parent. Delia had then shown hot sparks 
 
162 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 of a temper hardly inferior to Mrs. Chilcott*s 
 own; and, losing her self-control, had taken part 
 in the violent scenes which had embittered exist- 
 ence at Bridescombe since George's earliest recol- 
 lections. She had declared that her only safety 
 lay in flight, and during her lifetime avoided her 
 husband's family as much as possible. But here 
 was different mettle. Lady Grace was cold, 
 smiling, gracious; her self-command was absolute. 
 He realised that here was a woman fully capable 
 of fighting Lily's battles or her own, without 
 growing angry at all. 
 
 "I suppose you are a Radical,'* gasped Mrs. 
 Chilcott. 
 
 "I suppose I am," said Lady Grace, smiling 
 yet more graciously. "Not when they are in the 
 majority, however. I am always for the weaker 
 side." Her calm blue eyes met the fiery gaze of 
 George's mother, and Mrs. Chilcott knew that 
 for the second time that day she had encoun- 
 tered a spirit stronger than her own. 
 
 ''What do you think of her, mamma?" asked 
 Clara, before the two ladies and their escort were 
 well out of sight. 
 
 **I think she is a very artful woman,*' said 
 Mrs. Chilcott angrily. ** After the way in which 
 you told me she behaved the other day, pet- 
 ting Lily, and driving home in the dogcart with 
 George. I consider her coming over here just 
 another proof that she is making up to him in the 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 163 
 
 most barefaced manner. But I hope I showed 
 her that her foolish attempts at flattering me 
 made no impression, even though she does happen 
 to be the daughter of an ex-Cabinet minister." 
 
 * * Her father was a very celebrated man, though," 
 said Miss Clara, awestruck at her mother's con- 
 tempt for the great Lord Magloire's only child. 
 
 **0f course he was in his day. But that is no 
 reason why his daughter should be languid and 
 affected," said Mrs. Chilcott sharply. *'He left 
 no fortune at all. Every one knows that, and a 
 great many things were said about him both 
 before and after his death." 
 
 * ' I thought she must be badly off to live all by 
 herself in a flat," said Clara, and she beamed 
 with odd satisfaction ; taking almost equal pleas- 
 ure in the fact of Lady Grace's poverty and her 
 own perspicuity in discovering it. 
 
 Catherine, too, had an unpleasant quarter of an 
 hour to face at Bridescombe, when she sat opposite 
 Mrs. Chilcott and Clara in the morning-room, 
 after delivering her invitation to her godchild. 
 But expostulations, satire, and indignation were 
 now alike wasted upon George, who would not, 
 after all, permit Catherine to bear the brunt of 
 battle unsupported; but first announced his 
 determination that Lily should accept the invi- 
 tation immediately, and then sat in sullen silence 
 while the child's preparations were being made; 
 
164 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 and while Catherine endeavoured in vain to 
 soften the indignation of her aunt and cousin, 
 by dwelHng upon her own loneHness, and the 
 kindness it would be to her to spare her this 
 little companion until Philippa's return. One 
 barbed arrow from Mrs. Chilcott's inexhaustible 
 quiver flew straight to her niece's heart. 
 
 "I wonder you should care to undertake the 
 charge of another child when every one knows 
 you can't manage your own, Catherine." 
 
 Poor Catherine was white and trembling by 
 the time she had uttered her farewells, and found 
 herself seated by George's side in the dogcart, 
 with Lily squeezed between them, and her minute 
 trunk on the back seat with the groom. 
 
 Lily herself was as silent as her elders; 
 frightened, yet possessed by a secret joy and 
 amazement. 
 
 Was it possible that her dream of dreams was 
 after all to be fulfilled, and that she was going 
 to stay at Shepherd's Rest with her godmother, in 
 her wonderful cottage full of books, and away 
 from her Aunt Clara? 
 
 Though she clung to her father's neck when 
 he set her down at the rustic gate and kissed her 
 very seriously and bade her be a good girl — it 
 was with an almost incredulous sensation of bliss 
 that she saw him actually depart, leaving her 
 behind. Up to the last moment, and even after 
 she had seen her small trunk borne upstairs to 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 165 
 
 the bedroom under the brown eaves, Lily had 
 feared he might change his mind, and decide upon 
 some less extraordinary form of reprisal for her 
 misdeeds. 
 
 Her grandmother's parting speech, that to be 
 sent away from home as a punishment was the 
 most fearful disgrace that could befall a little 
 girl, weighed down her mind with a secret sense of 
 guilt that made her even paler and quieter than 
 usual as she followed Catherine into the cottage. 
 
 She was awed by the gentleness with which 
 her godmother lifted her presently on to her 
 knee, and put both arms round her, and laid her 
 own tired face against the child's soft dark curls. 
 Was it possible that Cousin Catherine was crying ? 
 
 Lily's self-control gave way upon this convic- 
 tion and she burst into tears herself, and sobbed 
 passionately with her thin arms tightening con- 
 vulsively round Catherine's neck. She thought 
 it must be her own wickedness that had caused 
 those tears to flow. 
 
 **0h I will be good, I will be good. I'm sorry, 
 indeed I'm sorry," she cried, hiding her face 
 against that soft bosom in an outburst of childish 
 shame and misery. 
 
 George came to Shepherd's Rest to bid his 
 little girl farewell before going to town, and was 
 startled to come suddenly upon his child flying 
 like the wind across the lawn, her dark curls 
 blowing about her cheeks, and her eyes bright 
 
166 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 with laughter. He flushed a dull red all over 
 his heavy face when she stopped short at sight 
 of him; he could not help seeing that the merri- 
 ment died out of her wide eyes. 
 
 **Are you afraid of me, Lily?" he asked. 
 
 "No, papa," she said nervously, but her ner- 
 vousness was explained by the faltering question, 
 **Have you come to take me away?" 
 
 **No, to say good-bye," said George, and his 
 heart ached to see the quick look of relief. 
 
 ** David is right, she has been unhappy," he 
 thought sadly. 
 
 He took some comfort, however, in the demon- 
 stration of affection and welcome which followed 
 his assurances that she was to stay at Shepherd's 
 Rest for the present, and they walked about 
 hand in hand, while she showed him, with new- 
 bom importance, her favourite comers of the 
 garden. 
 
 David followed with Catherine, and was well 
 content with the improvement in Lily's looks, 
 and the obvious success of his experiment. 
 
 "After all," he said, "it's not very wonderful 
 she should be happy here. It's a child's Paradise. 
 What a bower of beauty you have managed to 
 make of poor old Tedbum's farm." 
 
 "You should see her dairy," said George 
 proudly, "and her new cider-press. She beats 
 me there, I can tell you. There isn't a farm in 
 the country, of the size, that can hold a candle to 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 167 
 
 hers. I would never believe it could be the work 
 of a woman." 
 
 This was the highest praise George knew how 
 to bestow, and he gave utterance to it with honest 
 warmth. 
 
 **0h, George, I owe nearly all I have learnt to 
 you," said Catherine, who was cast in far too 
 feminine a mould to resent any such assumption 
 of manly superiority; and who therefore took 
 her cousin's praise as it was meant, in simple good 
 faith. 
 
 She led the way through her red-tiled house- 
 place, and down the worn step beneath the sunken 
 archway, into her dairy. Here stood rows of 
 bright tin pails holding newly-scalded milk cov- 
 ered with wrinkled yellow cream; and the great 
 red earthen bowl where the clotted cream already 
 skimmed was heaped in rich and luscious folds. 
 
 The wooden chum, scoured to whiteness, lay 
 sunning itself on the high window-sill, where the 
 rays penetrated through the green curtain of 
 leaves, into the fresh cool twilight of grey stone 
 arches, granite flags, and rows of slated shelves. 
 
 A low doorway in the north wall led through 
 a dim porch into the farmyard; and here George 
 began a tour of inspection which only ended at 
 tea-time, when they were summoned to a feast of 
 strawberries and home-baked cakes, spread upon 
 a little white-covered table in the porch. 
 
 Soon after partaking of this refreshment the 
 
168 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 two men took their leave and went away together, 
 pausing simultaneously to wave farewell before 
 turning the comer of the lane which hid from 
 view the garden where Catherine stood, in her 
 grey gown and shady hat, holding Lily's hand. 
 
 In their ears rang her parting words of entreaty : 
 **I am taking care of your child. Do what you 
 can for mine." 
 
 ** Trust me. If there were anything, anything 
 — but what could she want?" David had said, 
 looking kindly and laughing into those wistful 
 hazel eyes. But George had wrung Catherine's 
 hand in silence. He knew not how to express the 
 gratitude which filled him, save by that mighty 
 and painful grip. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 The Adelstanes' house in Belgrave Square had 
 been newly painted in the spring, and conse- 
 quently presented a clean white front to the 
 passers-by, and was further ornamented by 
 window-boxes and hanging baskets of pink ivy 
 geraniums, and gay awnings of striped red and 
 white canvas. 
 
 The green leaves fluttering across the black 
 trunks of the trees in the Square were still fresh 
 and bright, and afforded an agreeable shade to 
 Philippa when she walked round and round the 
 gravel paths in the morning, with Roper, to 
 exercise Augusta's French pug. 
 
 Lady Adelstane had taken great pleasure, the 
 day after her arrival in town, in driving her 
 young cousin round to various dressmakers, tai- 
 lors, and milliners, and ordering clothes and hats 
 for her; which she did with the more liberality 
 since it was quite understood that the bills were 
 to be sent in to Catherine. 
 
 The subsequent fittings rendered necessary 
 by these orders, however, Augusta had neither 
 leisure nor inclination to attend; so, since Roper 
 
 169 
 
170 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 was too inexperienced a Londoner to be of much 
 use, she was obHged to send her own maid with 
 Philippa, and highly inconvenient she presently 
 foimd such obligation to be. 
 
 **It gives her an excuse, you see, to be out 
 whenever I want her,'* she lamented to Lady 
 Grace; ''besides which it turns out that Roper 
 does not know her way about London at all. I 
 cannot think what possessed Catherine to send 
 such a fool. Philippa must walk out with some- 
 body. I cannot have her with me for ever, you 
 know, and she finds it tedious to go out in the 
 Square." 
 
 "She is a very pretty girl; I had no idea she 
 was so handsome. You have dressed her quite 
 charmingly," said Lady Grace. "It is extraor- 
 dinary what a difference clothes make. I admire 
 her although she does not like me. It amuses me 
 to see her draw her brows together whenever I 
 appear." 
 
 "The fact is, she is jealous of you," said Augusta, 
 with great complacency. "She cannot bear any- 
 body to speak to me but herself. It is really 
 embarrassing at times, for you know one can 
 talk of next to nothing before a girl of that age." 
 Augusta was uneasily conscious that Philippa's 
 great blue eyes had been fixed wonderingly upon 
 her already during many a pleasant chat with 
 an acquaintance. "I wish Cecil were in town 
 to take her off my hands, instead of dawdhng 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 171 
 
 away his time over imaginary business at Welwys- 
 bere. He could take her to see the sights. Imag- 
 ine, she wanted to go to the Hippodrome! She 
 is mad about performing monkeys and things of 
 that sort, and there I had to send her — she is 
 very insistent — with Holland and her own old 
 dunderhead of a maid, whom I am positively 
 afraid to send about with her. And I was going 
 to one of that delightful German's lectures with 
 Florrie Brooke, where I could not possibly take 
 her, you know, as Florrie wasn't even sure what 
 it was about." 
 
 *'And what was it about?" 
 
 *'I forget now — it was the day before yesterday. 
 But it was a great take-in. Quite dull and hum- 
 drum. Nothing risqu6 at all. However, every 
 one was there.'* 
 
 *'So I heard." 
 
 **I have taken Philippa twice to the Opera, 
 but she hates music, and got a headache from the 
 bad air, and looked like a ghost next day. Really 
 girls are very tiresome things. And now she has 
 taken it into her head that she mustn't go to the 
 Lundys' because she promised her mother she 
 wouldn't go to dances. I do think it very odd 
 of Catherine to exact such promises from her 
 when she is imder my wing. She ought to have 
 trusted to me. I said I wouldn't take her to 
 dances. Of course I didn't mean childish things 
 like the Lundys'," added Augusta, hastily. "The 
 
172 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 fact is, Philippa is too old and too young. I can't 
 send her to bed when I dine out, and I can't 
 take her with me; so there she sits by herself, 
 with nothing to do, making me feel as though 
 I were neglecting her." 
 
 "She ought to have a governess,'* said Lady 
 Grace, sympathetically. '* After all, one really 
 only begins one's education at sixteen." 
 
 "Her mother has always taught her herself, 
 so absurdly out of date, though I must say she 
 speaks French very well," said Augusta, dis- 
 contentedly. "Of course, Catherine was brought 
 up in France, so there is nothing in that." 
 
 "It's no credit to her then," said Lady Grace, 
 with a twinkle. 
 
 "Not in the least. But the tiresome thing is, 
 I stipulated she was to have holidays here, not 
 dreaming what a bore they would be. Still, I 
 might get a companion," she said, brightening 
 up. "I have often thought of having one myself. 
 They write letters and do tiresome things for one. 
 It would be a very good idea, Grace. I will see 
 about it immediately. It would be delightful 
 for Philippa, and convenient for me." 
 
 Augusta generally acted on impulse, and car- 
 ried out her caprices without giving herself time 
 for reflection; a habit which enabled her to be- 
 lieve herself a remarkably prompt and practical 
 person. 
 
 On the very afternoon of her conversation 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 173 
 
 with Grace Trumoin she drove to a foreign regis- 
 try office, and engaged a middle-aged French- 
 woman who happened to be personally known 
 to the proprietor of the establishment, and to 
 be possessed of the highest personal references 
 from her last situation. 
 
 Augusta was enchanted by her good luck 
 when she interviewed this lady, and found her 
 not only presentable and well-mannered, but 
 willing to enter upon her duties immediately. 
 
 It was settled that she should come on the 
 morrow, and Augusta looked forward with some 
 apprehension to breaking the news to Philippa. 
 
 A constant stream of visitors from five to seven 
 made it impossible for her to have any private 
 conversation with her young guest during the 
 remainder of the afternoon; though Philippa 
 was present in the drawing-room during these 
 hours, embarrassing her cousin by her constant 
 attention to the conversation, and habit of 
 abruptly stating the truth, the whole truth, 
 and nothing but the truth, whenever a question 
 was by any chance addressed to herself. 
 
 "She is very farouche,'' sighed Lady Adelstane 
 across the low tea-table to Lady Kentisbury, 
 whom she had invited, as she told Grace, entirely 
 for Philippa's sake, since she had no personal 
 inclination towards dowdy women given to good 
 works. **She is farouche, but such a dear! And 
 she leads such a dull life in the depths of Devon, 
 
174 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 and her mother never stirs from home. I do 
 want her to have a good time while she is with 
 me, but I haven't an idea how to begin. Do 
 advise me. I know less than nothing about 
 girls." 
 
 ** Surely, she ought to be in the schoolroom," 
 said Lady Kentisbury, looking at Philippa with 
 a maternal expression, and shaking her head. 
 
 '*0f course she ought; but she is being brought 
 up so oddly," said Augusta, apologetically, "that 
 really ordinary rules don't apply to her. Her 
 mother has educated her entirely herself, so of 
 course she is more advanced than girls who are 
 left to governesses and people. But she has seen 
 nothing of girls and boys of her own age. I 
 assure you Catherine has guarded her like a 
 dragon." 
 
 "So I have heard," said Lady Kentisbury. 
 "Lady Sarah tells me that she has devoted her 
 whole life to her child. How charming that is!" 
 
 "I am sure you have done the same," said 
 Augusta, vague but complimentary. "And I 
 do hope you will let her see something of your 
 young people while she is with me." 
 
 Lady Kentisbury was nothing loth, and, in 
 fact, agreed to the proposal very warmly, and 
 invited Philippa to luncheon on the very next 
 day, for Lady Sarah Adelstane, who was her 
 great-aunt by marriage, had, with her customary 
 promptness, been beforehand with Augusta, and 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 175 
 
 hinted that her grand-niece might search the 
 United Kingdom in vain for a more suitable 
 daughter-in-law than Philippa. 
 
 "Her mother is a saint," the old lady had 
 remarked, "and the girl has never been out of 
 her sight day or night. She is as innocent as a 
 baby, and as pretty as a picture. Of course you 
 will say it is odd she should be trusted to Augusta. 
 But the fact is that was my doing. I overper- 
 suaded her mother. Girls with Philippa's looks 
 and Philippa's expectations don't grow on every 
 gooseberry bush in the country, you know, and 
 hobbledehoys do; and I had no idea of her being 
 snapped up by the parson's son or some one of 
 that kind. Not that the parson at Welwysbere 
 has a son, but the principle is the same. One 
 never knows. The women of our family ripen 
 early, and she will marry young or not at all. I 
 know the breed, my love, very well. So I per- 
 suaded her mother to send her here. But between 
 you and me, my love, Augusta is the last person 
 in Europe I would have entrusted her to, if I were 
 not so very sure of the girl herself. She has been 
 over-mothered and a trifle spoilt, but she has the 
 very highest principles, and all the strength of 
 mind which so many young men seem to lack 
 nowadays," said Lady Sarah, significantly. 
 
 "They do, indeed," said Lady Kentisbury, with 
 a sigh. There was no need for explanation. Both 
 ladies were aware of the possibility of inherited 
 
176 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 tendencies in the young Marquis which rendered it 
 highly desirable that his wife should be a person of 
 principle and character. * * It would be very charm- 
 ing, dear Aunt Sarah, but of course it could not be at 
 once, as she is so young. However, an engagement 
 steadies a boy more than anything in the world." 
 
 "Why should it not be at once," said Lady 
 Sarah, impatiently. "People always put off that 
 sort of thing until the day after the fair. Do but 
 think of the daughter-in-law my nephew Rye 
 presented to my poor sister Maria the day he 
 came of age. As I told her, I blamed her own 
 shortsightedness. She should have found him 
 a suitable wife, tied him up young, and seen that 
 he had a legitimate heir. After that young 
 people must please themselves. One has put 
 them in the right way, you know, and done one's 
 duty by the family, and one can't dry-nurse 
 them for ever. The rest depends on the wife. 
 Philippa is her father's daughter. I don't know 
 that I need say much more than that," said 
 Lady Sarah, and a genuine tear shone in her blue 
 eyes, which were still bright, though set in a 
 network of wrinkles beneath snow-white hair. 
 
 "No, indeed," said Lady Kentisbury, warmly. 
 "I always looked up to him as the most nearly 
 perfect human being I ever met." 
 
 " He was a man, take him for all in all, 
 I shall not look upon his like again," 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 177 
 
 said Lady Sarah, and the tears gave place to a 
 smile. ''My love, I must be growing old at last, 
 since I have taken to quoting Shakespeare. How- 
 ever, my poor Philip was not so much a man as a 
 rock; and, now I come to think of it, rocks are 
 apt to be heavy, though very solid to lean against. 
 Philippa is solid and heavy." 
 
 "Heavy!" said Lady Kentisbury, alarmed. 
 "If she is not amusing, I am afraid Charlie will 
 never " 
 
 "My dear Jane, wait till he sees her. A boy 
 of that age finds a pretty girl amusing when she 
 says 'How do you do?' And, for heaven's sake, 
 rescue her from Augusta as often as you can!" 
 
 "Lady Adelstane has asked me to tea," said 
 Lady Kentisbury. 
 
 "D^;(i," said Lady Sarah, with a laugh. 
 
 Philippa was very much pleased to accept 
 Lady Kentisbury 's invitation to luncheon, after 
 a dutiful reference to her cousin for permission, 
 which bored Augusta, and pleased her would-be 
 hostess. 
 
 "My daughter is a year or two older than you 
 are, but not nearly so tall," she said graciously 
 to her young relative. "She came out last year." 
 
 "I wish I were out," said Philippa, with a sigh. 
 
 "Are you so fond of gaiety?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Philippa, bluntly. "I 
 have not tried. But I should like to go every- 
 
178 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 where with Cousin Augusta very much indeed, 
 and I am obliged to stay at home by myself 
 because I am not out, so the evenings are very 
 dull, as I do not care for reading. And it is very 
 tiresome always walking with a maid." 
 
 "We must try and get up some boy and 
 girl parties for you," said Lady Kentisbury, 
 sympathetically. 
 
 "My mother made me promise not to go to a 
 dance," said Philippa, discontentedly. 
 
 "Are you not going to the Ltmdys*? I under- 
 stood you were to go." 
 
 "I can't. I promised mummie I wouldn't. 
 I have told Cousin Augusta," said Philippa, and 
 her face assumed an obstinate expression that 
 brought out her resemblance to Sir Cecil with 
 odd emphasis. 
 
 Lady Kentisbury departed with the convic- 
 tion that Lady Sarah had correctly described 
 her granddaughter as high-principled; she was 
 naturally unaware of the impatient rebelliousness 
 underlying Phihppa's faithful adherence to her 
 mother's command; or of the indignant remon- 
 strances she had addressed to Catherine on the 
 subject. 
 
 Philippa was depressed, in spite of the pleasure 
 which Lady Kentisbury 's invitation caused her. 
 
 She was already beginning, as Lady Sarah 
 had foreseen, to be disillusioned concerning her 
 adored cousin, to turn the severe gaze of her 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 179 
 
 observant youth — now diverted from her parent — 
 in the direction of Augusta. There were many- 
 points concerning Augusta which were ill adapted 
 to sustain such an inspection. 
 
 It was scarcely to be wondered at that her 
 hostess was becoming almost nervous in the 
 presence of this tall, severe young vestal, who 
 looked her through and through with grave blue 
 eyes, and faithfully corrected her when she 
 detected her in the slightest inaccuracy. 
 
 "Really she is worse than Cecil," thought 
 Augusta, peevishly; but she could not help 
 discovering that Philippa was a great deal more 
 clear-sighted than the solemn, handsome gentle- 
 man whom she so nearly resembled. 
 
 Augusta's oldest friend and most constant 
 adorer. Major Cymbert, was the last of her callers 
 to leave, and as he stayed late and she was dining 
 out early she had to hasten to her room to dress 
 the instant he departed. Thither, as usual, she 
 felt obliged to invite Philippa to accompany her, 
 though the presence of a child of sixteen may be 
 sometimes embarrassing at the toilet of a lady of 
 forty bent upon making the most of herself ; and 
 Augusta was often hard put to it for excuses 
 to get rid of Philippa whilst she administered 
 the finishing touches to the picture she saw 
 reflected in her mirror. But the custom had 
 begun at the Abbey, where her young cousin's 
 innocent admiration of her charms had flattered 
 
180 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 Augusta's vanity ; and it was not easy to abandon 
 it now she had tired of its continuance without 
 disappointing and offending her worshipper, who 
 was of a somewhat exacting disposition, and 
 accustomed besides to getting her own way. 
 
 "It is quite a comfort to me, darling," said 
 Augusta, submitting to the removal of the larger 
 portion of her golden coiffure by the dexterous 
 hands of her maid, and contemplating herself 
 without it in the Dresden mirror, with perfect 
 calm and satisfaction, "a real relief — that I shall 
 not be obliged to leave you alone in the evenings 
 any longer." 
 
 She reflected that this was an excellent way to 
 break the news of the engagement of a com- 
 panion, to Holland, as well as to Philippa. 
 
 Neither could very well express before the 
 other any disapproval of her arrangements. 
 
 * 'Aren't you going out any more? Are you 
 going to stay at home, for my sake! " cried Philippa 
 with the incredulous joy of reviving faith; and 
 Holland raised surprised eyes and looked at her 
 mistress in the glass; her mind was filled with 
 the suspicions begotten of experience. 
 
 "My dear! How could I throw over my engage- 
 ments? Unless I were ill, or having an operation, 
 or something of that kind," said Augusta, reprov- 
 ingly. "I, who make a point of never disappoint- 
 ing anybody. It is part of my creed. I am one 
 of those people who can always be depended 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 181 
 
 upon. No, but a most charming French lady is 
 coming, who will take you out, and sit with you 
 whenever I am engaged elsewhere, you know; 
 and as you speak French so well, you are certain 
 to get on capitally. For my own sake I should 
 have preferred a German. I speak German and 
 French and Italian much about the same," said 
 Augusta, truthfully. "But, however, thinking 
 of you, I resolved to engage a French woman." 
 
 "To engage — do you mean I am to have a 
 governess?" demanded Philippa, starting to her 
 feet, indignantly. 
 
 "My dear Philippa," said Augusta, plaintively, 
 **pray do not spring up like that, you quite star- 
 tled me. Certainly not a governess — you forget 
 I promised you should do no lessons while you 
 were with me. Against my better judgment I 
 own, but still to me a. promise is a very sacred 
 thing." 
 
 "But, Cousin Augusta, you said " 
 
 f. "Holland, you are pulling my hair," said 
 Augusta, "and by the by I wish you would tell 
 Mrs. Joliffe that the room next to Miss Philippa's 
 must be got ready for Mme. Minart. Or I could 
 see her myself for one moment when I am dressed. 
 Yes? Forgive me for interrupting you, Philippa. 
 As I was saying, I have put off and put off get- 
 ting a companion for myself, and now at last I 
 have found a suitable person. These things take 
 time and thought. She will write my notes, you 
 
182 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 know, and do a hundred things besides. I am so 
 terribly overworked. And it will be company 
 for you in the evening." 
 
 Philippa made no answer. Her heart swelled 
 with astonishment and resentment, but her pride 
 prevented any utterance of the reproaches which 
 rose to her lips. 
 
 She, who had moved heaven and earth, and 
 sacrificed even her own mother to her devoted 
 affection for her friend — for in this light did her 
 desire to visit Augusta present itself to Philippa 
 — to be calmly relegated to the society of a hired 
 companion, while Cousin Augusta continued to 
 pursue her frivolous course, without troubling 
 to entertain the girl whom she had declared she 
 looked upon as her own child. 
 
 Philippa realised with almost incredulous wrath 
 that she had never in her life been treated with 
 so little consideration. Her first impulse was to 
 annoimce her intention of immediately returning 
 home, or, as she put it to herself, of quitting 
 Augusta's roof for ever. But an uncomfortable 
 conviction, in the background of her thoughts, 
 that such a course of action would be rather 
 punishing herself than her inconsiderate friend 
 caused her to hesitate; and while she hesitated 
 Augusta calmly rippled on, assuring her of the 
 benefits she would derive from Mme. Minart's 
 companionship, and praising the qualities of 
 this paragon, as revealed to her during an inter- 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 183 
 
 view of rather less than ten minutes' duration. 
 Her enthusiastic remarks passed unheeded over 
 Philippa's bent head, and caused Holland's lip 
 to curl with contempt. 
 
 **We shall hear a different tale this time next 
 year, and probably sooner," thought the maid to 
 herself, for Lady Adelstane changed her domestics 
 frequently, and they were all treasures when they 
 first arrived, though they developed with strange 
 unanimity into monsters before they were sent 
 away. 
 
 ''Perhaps, Philippa, dearest, you will go down- 
 stairs, and ring, and desire that Mrs. Joliffe should 
 be sent up here to me at once," said Augusta, 
 prudently ignoring the lowering expression of the 
 handsome young face. "I shall certainly be late 
 if I go on chattering like this, and when you are 
 here I find myself talking all the time. It is 
 such a pleasure to me, in my lonely life, to find a 
 sympathetic listener. I don't know what I shall 
 do when you are gone, darling." 
 
 **You will have Mme. Minart," said PhiHppa, 
 unable to resist this curt expression of her resent- 
 ment. **I will go and do what you ask. Cousin 
 Augusta," and with the mien of an offended 
 queen she marched out of the room. 
 
 **How imgrateful girls are!" complained Au- 
 gusta, snatching this opportunity to improve 
 the exquisite complexion which Nature had al- 
 ready bestowed upon her. "Naturally I only 
 
184 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 engaged this person for Miss Philippa's sake, 
 and for yourSy Holland. You have been very- 
 good about it, but of course it's not your work 
 to be always taking her about." 
 
 **lt's very kind of you to think of me, my lady, 
 I'm sure," said Holland, with a hint of satire 
 in her tone; which plainly conveyed to her mis- 
 tress that she was not impressed by this sudden 
 display of consideration. 
 
 ''Holland is a most unpleasant creature," re- 
 flected Augusta; *'I shall certainly get rid of 
 her before long. I hate a person with a nasty 
 dry manner Hke hers. It's very unfortunate 
 she should be such a good maid and such an 
 industrious needlewoman. All good maids are 
 disagreeable." 
 
 Augusta departed for her dinner-party in a 
 less amiable frame of mind than usual; but the 
 dinner proving unexceptionable and the com- 
 pany pleasant, she presently forgot her troubles, 
 and recovered her customary good spirits, and 
 satisfaction with herself and her surroundings. 
 
 Philippa maintained her attitude of proud 
 composure throughout the solitary meal which 
 was served to her in the great dining-room, where 
 her cousin's tall and solemn servants punctiliously 
 waited upon her. 
 
 But clear soup, roast quail, and iced aspara- 
 gus could not assuage her wounded feelings, and 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 185 
 
 even the giant strawberries from Welwysbere 
 were only enjoyed mechanically. 
 
 She was glad to find herself alone in the draw- 
 ing-room upstairs, seated beside the open window 
 in the pleasant summer twilight. Here she could 
 look out into the Square and indulge her feelings 
 unseen. 
 
 Her little cambric handkerchief was presently 
 wet with tears, for her disappointment and grief, 
 though childish, were very real. 
 
 She went over and over again, in memory, 
 through the fond phrases and flattering assurances 
 which Augusta had heaped upon her a few weeks 
 since, in response to her own sincere admiration. 
 
 "If I had not thought she really loved me, 
 and liked to talk to me — that she was really 
 going to be, as she promised, my greatest friend 
 in all the world," sobbed Philippa to herself, "I 
 do not think that only the pleasure of coming 
 to London and being fashionable and seeing 
 things would have tempted me. I don*t think 
 so. Of course I know mamma believes it was 
 only because I wanted gaiety and change and 
 all that, but I know it wasn't — only I couldn't 
 tell her how I long sometimes for a real com- 
 panion and friend, to whom I could tell every- 
 thing without getting everlasting good advice 
 in return. Poor mamma, I don't mean that. Of 
 course it's her duty to be always lecturing, and 
 I know I'm careless, and all that." 
 
186 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 Philippa was sobbing out her complaint half 
 aloud in the darkness, but the room was empty 
 and there was no one to hear. 
 
 **If I went home now, they would all feel *I told 
 you so,' though they wouldn't say it. I won't 
 go home, I will see it through; only I can never, 
 never feel the same to Augusta again. It is the 
 climax. These long lonely evenings have been 
 bad enough, but to have a stranger thrust upon 
 me — I wish Cousin Cecil would come back. She 
 pretends he is selfish, but I know better now. It 
 is she who is selfish, and who doesn't speak the 
 truth, and who — oh, to think I am saying such 
 things about her of all people in the world!" and 
 Philippa was obliged to admit to herself that her 
 admiration of Augusta had declined almost as 
 swiftly as it had arisen. 
 
 "But it is not / that am changeable, it is not, 
 it is not,'' she thought miserably. *'I could al- 
 most wish it were. It is she who is unworthy, and 
 who has failed me; I won't show her my feel- 
 ings, though.'* Here she was forced to swallow an 
 uneasy suspicion that Augusta would not greatly 
 mind if she did. "I will go through to the end. 
 But all my pleasure in London is gone now ; no 
 matter where I go, or who I meet, I shall never, 
 never be the same again." 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 Mrs. Ralt, to the astonishment of her husband, 
 now installed herself in one of the most luxurious 
 hotels in London, and suddenly announced her 
 intention of passing the remainder of the season 
 there. 
 
 "But you hate London," said Mr. Ralt, as 
 though afraid she must be mistaking her own 
 wishes. 
 
 "So I do." 
 
 "You said you would never cx)me up for the 
 season again." 
 
 "So I did." 
 
 "And yet you have come." 
 
 "So I have," said Mrs. Ralt, and her small 
 eyes twinkled merrily. "My dear old man, we 
 must sometimes put ourselves about for other 
 people. When I've taken a thing in hand I like 
 to see it through, and in this case seeing it through 
 means a short stay in the metropolis." 
 
 "I suppose you want to do a lot of shopping?" 
 
 "Not I," said Mrs. Ralt, "unless you want 
 to see me a bit smarter, old man. I suppose I 
 am a trifle dowdy. However, neither you nor 
 
 187 
 
188 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 I ever set up for being beauties," she added, 
 dispassionately. 
 
 But Mr. Rait was apparently quite contented 
 with his wife's appearance, for he protested fondly; 
 though at the moment she was far from looking 
 her best, being clad in a gentlemanly striped dress- 
 ing-gown, with a small pigtail of iron-grey hair 
 hanging down her shoulders, and a much larger 
 one laid openly upon the dressing-table. 
 
 "I'm sure you always look very nice, Blanche. 
 I don't know anybody who gets herself up in a 
 more thoroughly sensible manner. And as for 
 me, I ain't handsome and don't want to be; but 
 I've got a good old-fashioned sporting kind of 
 face," said Mr. Rait, very simply. "What more 
 can a man want? And I suppose you saw some- 
 thing in it, or you wouldn't have had me." 
 
 "To be sure I shouldn't," said Blanche. 
 
 Mr. Rait waited for a moment in case his wife 
 showed any inclination to explain herself further 
 concerning her sudden determination to stay in 
 London; but, as she did not, he shook his head 
 with a puzzled expression and remarked, 
 
 "Well, I know you're always doing kindnesses 
 to some one, Blanche." 
 
 "H'm, this may prove a very doubtful kind- 
 ness," said Mrs Rait grimly. "But meantime, 
 Bob, as we are here, and as we mean to stop here, 
 we may as well enjoy ourselves." 
 
 "By all means. I'll make out a regular pro- 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 189 
 
 gramme at once," said Mr. Rait, with brightening 
 eyes. "You know, Blanche, I like London well 
 enough. It's you who don't Hke it.'* 
 
 "I hate smart clothes and I don't care much 
 for smart people," said Mrs. Rait, candidly. 
 **Not that I've had much to do with either for 
 the last twenty years. Papa was a great one 
 for society and so on, but I leave all that to 
 Augusta; it is more in her line than mine, though 
 I have no doubt she makes a fine fool of her- 
 self. Her head is not one to stand being made a 
 fuss of." 
 
 "I don't see why people should make less fuss of 
 you than of Augusta," said Mr. Rait, in offended 
 accents. "You must not forget that if you have 
 married a poor fellow who doesn't set up to 
 be a swell, you are quite as well born as your 
 sister." 
 
 "I am not likely to forget that," said Blanche, 
 laughing heartily. "Something very odd indeed 
 would have to happen before one twin sister 
 could be less well bom than the other! And as 
 for my father, every one knows old Sam Mocha 
 was a self-made man, who owed both his money 
 and his peerage to his own exertions, and the 
 more credit too. All nonsense about birth, dear 
 old man. If the Bible's true we all came from 
 Adam and Eve; and if it isn't, we all came from 
 protoplasms"; in this airy manner did Mrs. Rait 
 sum up the history of human origin. "Which- 
 
190 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 ever it is I cannot see that it gives us much 
 occasion to boast. Now look here: IVe got 
 a nice little luncheon party for Sunday. George 
 Chilcott and David Moore, and George's boy 
 Hector, who's got an eoceat or something. Any- 
 way he's come up to see his father and tincle. And 
 Augusta is going to bring Grace Trumoin and 
 Philippa, and an odious Frenchwoman whom 
 she's taken a violent fancy to; so we shall be 
 quite a pleasant party. And as soon as you're 
 dressed I want you to toddle round and secure 
 a table at the Navarre.*' 
 
 "But why not ask them to dine?" 
 
 *'You don't suppose I could get Augusta to 
 dine under three weeks' notice! But I've booked 
 some of the others for dinners and theatres," said 
 Mrs. Rait cheerfully. ** Augusta rather likes 
 lunching at restaurants, and she told me the 
 Navarre had a new chef, which was a pretty broad 
 hint. Meanwhile I'll leave you to take places 
 somewhere for to-night and to-morrow for our 
 two selves. Something light and bright in the 
 musical comedy line, eh?" 
 
 ''It's the only kind of show / have any use for," 
 said Mr. Rait, with much relief. **A man doesn't 
 want to have to think, you know, after he's 
 eaten a good dinner." 
 
 "No, no, nor a woman either," said Mrs. Rait, 
 "and we needn't be in town at all in the daytime — 
 to speak of," she added, soothingly, "with the 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 191 
 
 little car always ready to nip off anywhere at a 
 moment's notice." 
 
 "No more we need," said Mr. Rait, and his 
 rubicund face shone with satisfaction at the 
 reminder. 
 
 At sixteen even despair is transitory, and three 
 days after her melancholy disillusionment con- 
 cerning Augusta's perfection, Philippa wrote to 
 her mother as follows: 
 
 **My darling Mum, — ^The reason I have not 
 written for so long is that I waited to be able to 
 tell you about Mme. Minart, the companion 
 whom Cousin Augusta has engaged to write her 
 letters and do lots of other things; but while I 
 am here she takes me for walks and has meals 
 with me when Cousin Augusta is out. 
 
 *'I would not write at once, as I know you think 
 my judgments are apt to be hasty, but I can 
 now tell you that Mme. Minart is by far the 
 nicest person I have ever met. Of course it helps 
 my French very much to be talking to her all day. 
 Cousin Augusta likes her as much as I do, which 
 is a great comfort. I know now what you mean 
 by being tactful when I see Mme. Minart with 
 Cousin Augusta. I assure you in three days I 
 have learnt more tact from Mme. Minart than in 
 all the rest of my life without her. Now, mamma, 
 you used to say I ought to have a finishing gover- 
 
192 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 ness, and of course I hated the idea; but if you 
 could only persuade Cousin Augusta to let you 
 have Mme. Minart for me, I should be simply 
 delighted. She is thoroughly able to finish girls, 
 for she lived with a Grand Duchess in Russia 
 and finished all her girls; she told me so herself. 
 This is quite my own idea about her coming to 
 me, and to show you how discreet I am, / have not 
 told her I am writing to ask you about this. She is 
 very good-looking; I don't know if you would 
 call her handsome. / do, but it is a face which 
 grows upon one. At first sight I thought her 
 almost plain. She is very dark, inclined to be 
 yellow, and has a slight moustache ; but even this 
 is fascinating when you know her well. Cousin 
 Augusta says she is sure she has Spanish blood. 
 Her eyes are simply enormous, such a dark 
 brown you can hardly tell the pupil from the iris, 
 and her black hair comes down nearly to her 
 knees, you never saw anything like it. Of course 
 Cousin Augusta*s maid is jealous of her, and 
 poor Roper can't bear her, but you know how 
 prejudiced servants are against foreigners. She 
 is not young, she must be at least thirty, but quite 
 well preserved and active, and it is a comfort 
 to walk with some one who can walk as fast as I 
 do. Holland has an absurd train and high heels 
 which trip her up, and Roper gets so breathless 
 that she bursts her dress, and even her boots, 
 whereas Mme. Minart wears such neat shoes and 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 193 
 
 short, very smart skirts, and is so interested in 
 everything one tells her that she is a delightful 
 companion. To please you, mother darhng, 
 I am going to take more interest in my clothes, 
 especially as I now have much prettier ones. 
 To show you how delightful Mme. Minart must be, 
 though I had been looking forward so to luncheon 
 with Lady Kentisbury, I was actually quite 
 sorry to leave her when the time came yesterday 
 for me to go. Lady K. was very kind to me, 
 and said I must call her Cousin Jane; and the 
 others called me by my Christian name as we are 
 cousins. Charlie is very fair and rather pretty, 
 which must feel wretched for a boy. He looks 
 no older than Hector, and is not half so broad 
 though he is twenty-one, but he has very nice 
 manners, almost like Cousin Cecil, and does not 
 give himself airs because he happens to be a year 
 or two older than oneself; so we got on very well, 
 especially when Cousin Jane left us alone. I like 
 him much better than Joanna, who is an affected 
 pig; she is eighteen, and not so pretty as Charlie. 
 To-morrow Charlie is going to take us all down 
 to Ranelagh in his new motor. He is going to 
 teach me to drive it, but don't be nervous, as 
 Lady Kentisbury will be with us, and she is far 
 more frightened about him than even you are 
 about me. I am now enjoying myself very much, 
 but I wish you would let me go to the Limdys' 
 dance. Granny said I was to ask you again. 
 13 
 
194 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 Their daughter is only seventeen, and it is only 
 for boys and girls. Charlie and Joanna are going, 
 and Joanna said with a horrid smile, 'Of course 
 you can*t go, as you're not out.' I am a head 
 taller than she is and look years older. There 
 is a horrid old Major Cymbert always coming 
 here who once wanted to marry Cousin Augusta. 
 He talks to me exactly as though I were a child. 
 I must say it is very annoying. Mme. Minart 
 has shown Roper a lovely way to do my hair; 
 neither up nor down, but just right for a jeune fille. 
 Please, please say yes about the dance. I'm 
 afraid I wrote rather horridly about it the other 
 day, but if you only could understand how hate- 
 ful it is to be treated like a little girl when you're 
 so nearly grown up you would let me go. Please 
 write at once to say you will, dear mummie. 
 "Your affectionate daughter, 
 
 *Thilippa Adelstane." 
 
 This letter iDrought no particular consolation 
 to Catherine, who lay awake at night, wondering 
 what kind of woman this could be who in three 
 days had obtained so much influence over her 
 daughter. She penned a long, apologetic, anxious 
 letter to Augusta on the subject, and the reply 
 brought only partial satisfaction. Augusta wrote 
 of course in a violent hurry. The words In 
 Haste, might have been inscribed on her note- 
 paper with her address, so invariabW did they 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 195 
 
 recur in her communications to her relatives and 
 friends. Like most persons who have nothing 
 to do from morning till night, she never had a 
 moment to spare. She assured Catherine of 
 Mme. Minart^s excellent qualities as an instruc- 
 tress and guardian of youth; and almost in one 
 sentence added that she was a most trustwor- 
 thy and devoted companion for Philippa, and that 
 Philippa was scarcely ever with her, as nothing 
 would induce Augusta to allow the girl out of her 
 sight for a moment. Catherine was obliged to 
 gather what comfort she might from these con- 
 tradictory assurances. 
 
 Meanwhile the blank of Philippa's absence was 
 perceptibly lessened by the companionship of 
 little Lily. Catherine experienced occasionally 
 a bewildered feeling that the child of her dreams 
 had come to life, and felt almost jealous for 
 Philippa' s sake ; almost resentful that the little 
 arms which clung to her so faithfully were not 
 Philippa's arms; yet realising that such demon- 
 strative love was not in Philippa's nature. 
 
 Lily showed no preference for Miss Dulcinea, 
 but followed her godmother about like a shadow. 
 
 In the morning, poor Catherine daily spent 
 an anxious hour over her letter to Philippa; 
 writing and rewriting; wording her news as 
 carefully as though she were framing a diplo- 
 matic despatch, fearful of offending her child's 
 susceptibilities by giving too much good advice, 
 
196 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 and of neglecting her duty by withholding it 
 altogether. During this long hour Lily sat like 
 a mouse in a comer; poring over her lesson, and 
 ready to repeat it perfectly the moment Cousin 
 Catherine closed her envelope. Lily learnt to 
 listen for the little sigh which heralded this 
 moment, and it never failed to come. 
 
 In her heart she felt she knew why Catherine 
 sighed, though she could not, perhaps, have put 
 the feeling into words; but Catherine never 
 guessed how intently the black eyes watched her 
 as she bent over her little writing-table in the 
 green-shaded parlour. When she rose, and went 
 out into the kitchen garden, the little figure in a 
 pink sunbonnet followed her there. Catherine cut 
 lettuces and pulled spring onions, and gathered 
 young spinach with her own hands; and Lily 
 carried the basket, and helped to pick the green 
 gooseberries and ripe strawberries, making grave 
 comments which often obliged Catherine to laugh. 
 
 In the afternoon the child played mysterious 
 games with fir-cones, under shrubbery bushes, 
 talking to herself all the while; or if she were 
 permitted buried herself in a story-book, and 
 remained lost to earth until she was called to tea. 
 In the evening she took the smallest watering-pot, 
 and watered the geraniums and the ferns and the 
 young lettuce as carefully as could be wished; 
 and Catherine smiled to recall Philippa's early 
 efforts in this direction : the trampled flower-beds, 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 197 
 
 the soaked shoes, and the dripping skirts which 
 inevitably resulted. 
 
 Children have often far more delicacy of feeling 
 than their elders give them credit for, and Lily 
 preserved a large share of that natural reserve 
 which is common in little maidens towards their 
 elders; Catherine respected it, and never at- 
 tempted to lift the veil of the child's silence con- 
 cerning her home life. But she watched the 
 little face grow daily brighter, the frightened 
 twinkle develop into a frank smile, unafraid and 
 unconcealed, and she perceived that this elfin fur- 
 tive creature was in reality possessed of a merry 
 soul, while the coaxing ways, which the Chilcotts 
 called artful, only recalled to Catherine the affec- 
 tionate warmth of heart and manner which had 
 characterised Lily's mother. Though the child's 
 caresses might sadden, yet in a manner they 
 consoled Catherine for much that she had 
 lost. 
 
 The love of DeHa's child was precious to her, 
 and she grew daily more interested in the train- 
 ing of a mind precociously intelligent ; though its 
 native sincerity had been, alas! warped by fear. 
 
 "Lily, things that aren't true have no real 
 meaning. The world is full of tangles, and every 
 time you tell a fib you add another little tangle, 
 instead of helping the brave men and true who 
 are striving all over the world to set things 
 straight." 
 
198 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 **Like sowing more little weeds in a garden," 
 said Lily, sympathetically. 
 
 Catherine felt the surprised sense of being 
 understood that often assailed her when she 
 talked fancifully to Lily. 
 
 "I will help you pull up the little weeds, and 
 you must start fresh and only let flowers grow 
 in your little garden. When you have said some- 
 thing that is not quite true, stop and correct 
 yourself,'* said Catherine encoturagingly ; "that 
 will be pulling up the weed." 
 
 ** Won't you be angry with me?" 
 
 **No, I shall know it is only a bad habit, and 
 that you are trying hard to cure yourself." 
 
 Into this scheme for her own improvement 
 Lily entered with much zest, and found it as 
 good a game as any she had ever invented for 
 herself. 
 
 Down the path of Fate now came stepping 
 daintily, to meet George Chilcott, the languid, 
 slender form of Lady Grace Trumoin. 
 
 David Moore was by no means sure that he 
 approved of this result of his earnest counsel to 
 his brother-in-law, or whether the calm and 
 experienced woman of the world were altogether 
 suited to be the successor of Delia. He had 
 imagined a fresh young bride, who would brighten 
 the dull existence of George, pet little Lily, and 
 disperse the gloom which hung over Bridescombe. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 199 
 
 Lady Grace was an unknown quantity. Nobody 
 could foresee what she would choose to do, but it 
 was very evident that she would do what she 
 chose; and that George was attracted by the 
 very elements of strength and reserve in her 
 character which most repelled David. This 
 David perceived a very few days after their 
 arrival in town; but, however amenable George 
 might be to his influence, there were limits to 
 the advice which could be offered him; and his 
 brother-in-law could only rejoice to perceive 
 that Lily's father had shaken off his depression 
 almost immediately after depositing his child 
 in Catherine's care, and that every day spent 
 in their bachelor rooms appeared to restore to 
 him something of the careless jollity and placid 
 good nature which had characterised his boyhood. 
 
 **It was time I had a change, David," he 
 repeated more than once. *'One begins to take 
 a jaundiced view you know. Yes, that's it — a 
 jaundiced view of one's surroundings, if one 
 looks at them too closely for too long at a time." 
 
 Being of an optimistic and modest disposition, 
 he even grew inclined to blame himself for the 
 state of things which had arisen at Bridescombe, 
 and which, as he frankly owned to David, made 
 his life at times almost unbearable. 
 
 **I've no great gift for organisation, David, 
 and I sometimes don't feel sure that going into 
 the army is the best preparation for settling 
 
200 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 down on one's own place, after all; and yet I 
 can't help being glad Hector's set his heart on 
 soldiering. Hope he'll pull off his exams, all 
 right, but he ain't remarkable for brains, I'm 
 afraid. I suppose I ought to hold forth to him 
 about working and so forth, poor fellar, more 
 than I do. But I ain't much of a disciplinarian.'* 
 
 **I don't believe jawing a boy does a bit of 
 good," said David. ** Let's have him here, give 
 him the time of his life, and have one or two of 
 the best to dine and do a play with us. In- 
 spire him more than any preaching of yours or 
 mine." 
 
 This form of discipline so recommended itself 
 to young Hector, that he confided to Philippa at 
 the Raits' luncheon party that he wished his 
 father would take up his abode permanently 
 with Colonel Moore. 
 
 **He would be neglecting his duties at home," 
 said Philippa, severely. **0h. Hector, mamma 
 has telegraphed that I may go to the Ltmdys' 
 dance after all. Won't it be lovely? How I wish 
 you were coming!" 
 
 "I'm jolly glad I'm not. I should hate it like 
 anything," said the civil Hector. "Besides it's 
 only for half-baked kids, not a real dance. I 
 say, Phil, d'yCu think you'll be here for the Eton 
 and Harrow?" 
 
 "I think so. I was to stay six weeks." 
 
 "That's all right. I shall see you there. Be 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 201 
 
 sure you're properly got up. You might wear 
 the rig-out you've got on now. That hat is 
 really frightfully decent. Very unlike the things 
 you wear at Welwysbere. I suppose Lady Adel- 
 stane chose it." 
 
 **As if a boy of your age knew anything about 
 hats. I chose it myself as it happens," said 
 Philippa, disdainfully, and she turned her shoul- 
 der upon the youth. 
 
 "Don't get stuffy," he advised. "I shall be 
 gone to-morrow, and then you'll be sorry. Who 
 is the foreign lady? It makes everything stiff 
 when people are obhged to jabber French." 
 
 "It is Mme. Minart, Cousin Augusta's com- 
 panion," said Philippa eagerly. 
 
 "What does she want a companion for now 
 she's got you?" 
 
 "Oh, Hector, she's such an angel!" 
 
 "Do you mean she's your latest craze?" said 
 Hector, unimpressed. 
 
 "I don't know what you mean by my latest 
 craze. She's my great friend. I only wish you 
 had a tenth part of her tact," said Philippa with 
 dignity. 
 
 "I only wish I had," said Hector, derisively. 
 "If I could butter up old Slocum as she's butter- 
 ing up Uncle David, it would be very greatly to 
 my advantage." 
 
 "So Cinderella is to be allowed to go to the 
 ball after all, eh, Philippa?" cried Mrs. Rait. 
 
202 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 *'I wish you joy of your first dance, my dear. 
 I wish you better luck than I had at mine, for I 
 only got one partner; and I tripped him up, so 
 down I came, and sprained my ankle and had to 
 be carried home." 
 
 The noise of the band, the clatter of the service, 
 and the chatter of the crowd in the restaurant 
 rendered a teie-h-tHe not only safe, but preferable 
 to those who did not care to scream so loudly 
 as Mrs. Rait. 
 
 **I have really found a treasure,*' said Augusta 
 to Lady Grace, next whom she had insisted 
 upon seating herself. *'Mme. Minart has been 
 going through the accounts for me, and finds the 
 household extravagance appalling. I have a 
 very great mind to let her be housekeeper and 
 get rid of Mrs. Joliffe. She was once housekeeper 
 to a German baron and his wife, and is always 
 pressing me to write to them about her." 
 
 "How delightful!" said Lady Grace, vaguely. 
 
 **She has taken Philippa completely off my 
 hands. This afternoon, for instance, they are 
 off to the Zoo together. Imagine my relief. My 
 last Sunday afternoon was a perfect frost. Men 
 can't and won't talk before a girl of that age. 
 Nobody in fact can open their mouths. She feels 
 it herself, poor darling, and it makes her more 
 farouche than ever. You will say I ought to cure 
 her, but really it's easier said than done." 
 
 **She looks happy enough now." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 203 
 
 *'I can't think why Blanche asked that boy/* 
 said Augusta, lowering her voice prudently, for 
 George was seated next her on her other side. 
 "Nor his father either. The very people whom 
 Philippa meets every day at home." 
 
 Lady Grace knew very well why Mrs. Rait 
 had asked George Chilcott and his son, but she 
 made no response to Augusta. 
 
 *' Going to the Zoo!" cried Mr. Rait. "What 
 an excellent idea ! Blanche, do you hear? Philippa 
 and Mme. Minart are going to the Zoo. Let us 
 make up a party and go all together." 
 
 "I can give you as many orders as you choose," 
 said Augusta, making it clear that she had no 
 intention of joining Mr. Ralt's party. 
 
 "To the Zoo! One would think we were a lot 
 of kids!" said Hector, in an indignant aside to 
 Phihppa. But since his father and uncle did not 
 share his prejudices against this childish form of 
 amusement he was obliged to conceal his feelings, 
 and consoled himself by the reflection that perhaps 
 old Rait would let him try his hand at driving 
 the car. 
 
 "I tell you what, Augusta, when we call at 
 your house for the tickets, you can let us have 
 all the fruit you can spare for the animals," said 
 Mrs. Rait, cheerfully. "They will appreciate 
 a change from nuts and buns." 
 
 "I never heard of anything so extravagant!" 
 said Augusta, sincerely shocked. 
 
204 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 "How wonderfully you speak English, ma- 
 dame," said Colonel Moore to his neighbour. 
 
 "I have lived many years in this country," 
 said Mme. Minart's mellow contralto tones, 
 modestly. **Not always in the same family — 
 one does not improve so. One learns nothing. 
 And besides, people grow tired of always the 
 same governess — the same companion. I do 
 not blame them. I feel the same. There are 
 many," said Mme. Minart, with a twinkle in her 
 dark eyes, "who would be glad to change their 
 family — ^their relatives — from time to time — if 
 they could." 
 
 "There certainly are. You are a student 
 of human nature, I perceive," said David 
 politely. 
 
 "It is necessary to study in order to please," 
 she said, with a smile more melancholy than 
 cheerful, and David's susceptible heart was 
 instantly touched to compassion. "I have had to 
 please people so different — of so many classes, 
 even. I know your family of the suburb very 
 well; of your country gentleman — that is again 
 different; of the Anglo-Indian — altogether an- 
 other; of the parsonage — the professional — the 
 Londoner — of the great families who have many 
 houses. The worldly, the pious, the vulgar, the 
 simple, are to be found in each class. But always 
 the higher you go, the more simple — the 
 more courteous. Before you can be quite 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 205 
 
 simple — you must be very great — is it not so, 
 monsieur?" 
 
 "It may very well be so," said David, laughing. 
 **You have had more opportunities than I of 
 knowing, I expect." 
 
 **Ah, that to me reveals you," she said archly. 
 *'The gentleman who makes no pretence." 
 David's expressive face betrayed uneasiness, 
 almost alarm, at this compliment ; and she hast- 
 ened to smooth it away. An inflection of plead- 
 ing, of humility, crept into her voice. *'I speak 
 perhaps too plainly, but you will pardon me. 
 For you seemed to me perhaps — not so English 
 as 
 
 *'I am half an Irishman," said David. 
 
 **I knew it," said Mme. Minart, and again 
 her accent betrayed that subtle hint of flattery. 
 But a moment later she was all attention to 
 Augusta, who was begging Colonel Moore 
 to escort her and Philippa to the Lundys' 
 dance. 
 
 "But I don't know the Lundys." 
 
 "I assure you they are dying to know you. 
 And they are going to send you a card to-morrow," 
 said Augusta, determining to despatch a note to 
 Lady Lundy and ask for this favour directly 
 she returned home. "I am afraid Cecil won't 
 be back. It is too provoking of him, for I wanted 
 him to see Philippa at her first dance; but so it 
 is. And I have only boys and girls coming to 
 
206 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 dinner, and shall be quite too wretched without 
 another old person to keep me in countenance," 
 said Augusta, comfortably. 
 
 **I shall be delighted," said David. 
 
 Mme. Minart observed the frank flush of pleas- 
 ure in Philippa's face, and the sparkle in her 
 blue eye. 
 
 *'She has everything in the world before her," 
 thought the Frenchwoman. *'Love, money, posi- 
 tion all to come, and she has youth and beauty 
 and a health that is perfect. She takes all good 
 things as her due. What could I not have done, 
 what could I not have been, with but half the 
 chances of this child?" 
 
 Philippa's good spirits were now entirely re- 
 stored. Though her cousin Augusta's friendship 
 had failed her, yet that vacant place had been, 
 as it seemed to her, miraculously filled up by 
 this dehghtful Mme Minart, who was, after all, 
 a far cleverer and more agreeable companion 
 than Augusta could ever be. The flattery of 
 the Frenchwoman had in fact simk deeply into 
 Philippa*s soul, and soothed her wounded self- 
 esteem completely. 
 
 She looked forward to her first dance without 
 any regrets save one — ^that Mme Minart could 
 not be present to behold her bliss. There was 
 no doubt in Philippa's innocent mind but that 
 such an occupation would. afford her new friend 
 the most exquisite pleasure. She was at this 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 207 
 
 period of her existence well aware that middle- 
 aged persons find all their happiness in looking 
 on at the happiness of the young, and are not so 
 unreasonable as to expect enjoyment on their 
 own account. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 Towards the end of June, Cecil Adelstane rode 
 up to Shepherd's Rest one evening; and meeting 
 Johnny, the groom, in the lane, handed his horse 
 over to be led to the stables, while he walked 
 into the garden, where he found Catherine, as 
 usual. 
 
 Her book had fallen into her lap, and she was 
 enjoying the cool air after a very hot day. 
 
 Her dreaming gaze followed the flight of the 
 swifts and house-martins wheeling and darting 
 in the blue of space, in search of their invisible 
 prey. All round the bench whereon she sat 
 the campanulas, rose and purple and white, 
 swung noiseless bells. Behind her the pointed 
 spires of the fir-trees, and the rounded flowering 
 masses of a great Spanish chestnut, were outlined 
 against a clear sunset sky, and from the orchard, 
 where the cows were being milked, came the 
 sound of Lily's voice, gaily chattering. It struck 
 Catherine that Cecil came up the garden path 
 with a heavier air and step than usual. 
 
 **I have come to bid you good-bye, for my 
 business is finished, and I am returning to town 
 
 208 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 209 
 
 to-morrow," he said, after his usual civil greeting 
 and inquiries for her news of Philippa. 
 
 "It is the night of her dance," Catherine said, 
 rather wistfully ; but his absent expression made 
 her abandon the subject. "I am afraid you have 
 had a very dull time down here alone," she said. 
 
 "I have been too much occupied to be dull," 
 said Sir Cecil in his most precise tones. He was 
 silent for a moment, and then, as though suddenly 
 conscious of her sympathetic feeling, was moved 
 to make one of his rare confidences. "The fact 
 is, Catherine, I have been very much worried 
 and troubled of late." 
 
 "I am sorry to hear it. I have fancied you 
 were not looking well." 
 
 "All my Hfe," said Sir Cecil gravely, "I have 
 been constitutionally unable to stand worry. 
 It affects my sleep. I fear for my health. I do 
 indeed." He turned his deep blue eyes, that 
 were the exact counterpart of Philippa's, upon 
 Catherine, with an expression so woeful that 
 she had some ado not to smile at his alarm for 
 himself. 
 
 "You must not let yourself worry." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I am not inclined, I can assure you, to seek 
 causes for anxiety. It has often been a matter 
 of self-reproach with me that I have perhaps 
 taken matters too easily ; that I have been too — 
 too — " He searched anxiously for words that 
 
210 • CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 should convey his meaning without at the same 
 time implying any possible reproach to another; 
 and Catherine, who understood perfectly his 
 loyalty to Augusta, felt tenderly towards him, 
 and regretted her suppressed smile. 
 
 "I have been too much given to ignoring 
 what I have not altogether felt able to approve.** 
 
 *'I do not think you need reproach yourself," 
 said Catherine, gently. 
 
 **Do you not, indeed?" he said earnestly. **I 
 am very glad to hear you say so, Catherine, 
 very glad." He paused, and added emphatically, 
 *'I know no one whose opinion on such a matter 
 I should value more than your own." 
 
 Catherine flushed with surprise and pleasure, 
 for Cecil was not given to expressions of praise. 
 
 "To cut a long story short," he said, under the 
 impression that he had been exceedingly loqua- 
 cious, "I feel impelled to tell you, in the very 
 strictest confidence, that I have discovered that my 
 trusted agent here, Mr. Crewe, has been systemati- 
 cally defrauding me for a great number of years. 
 Could you have conceived it possible?" 
 
 Catherine expressed her sympathy and indig- 
 nation very warmly, but she found it difficult 
 to appear surprised. Country neighbours are in 
 the way of hearing a good many criticisms of 
 absentee landlords, and the character of Mr. 
 Crewe had not stood high in local estimation. 
 
 Fortunately Cecil was too much occupied 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 211 
 
 with his troubles to perceive her embarrassment. 
 
 '*I have been obliged to send for my solicitor, 
 Mr. Ash. He is a very clear-headed young man 
 indeed. I thought it a great misfortune that 
 his father, who had all our affairs at his fingers' 
 ends, should be dead ; but I am not sure whether 
 old Ash had such energy as this young man has 
 shown.'* He sighed wearily. "I blame myself, 
 Catherine. I have been away too much, and too 
 much taken up with — ^with gaiety and frivolity." 
 
 The words were so much at variance with his 
 preternaturally solemn expression and the serious- 
 ness of his character, that again Catherine could 
 have smiled, and again she restrained herself, 
 noting the lines that unaccustomed care had en- 
 graven upon his handsome brow. 
 
 "I am sure, Cecil," she said, with an indignant 
 inflection of voice, "that whatever you have 
 done, or left undone, has been from no lack of 
 conscientiousness. You have not been seeking 
 your own pleasure." She could not help a slight 
 emphasis. 
 
 "I have not indeed," he said, almost involun- 
 tarily, and sighed. ' * Do you remember, Catherine, 
 how very much occupied I used to be with the 
 estate when first I inherited? When we lived 
 here practically all the year round? Those were 
 happy years. I wish very much we had been 
 able to continue living at the Abbey. I do not 
 think Crewe would have had so many oppor- 
 
212 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 tunities; but it is no use regretting what can- 
 not be helped. I suppose few of us would not do 
 differently in many ways, if we had our time to 
 live over again. One must pay the penalty for — 
 for the carelessness of one's youth." 
 
 Catherine knew that Cecil Adelstane was, 
 in fact, paying the penalty for his choice of a 
 silly and selfish wife, and for his weakness in 
 allowing that wife to govern his actions; but 
 she knew also that Augusta possessed a certain 
 shrewdness in spite of her folly; which, com- 
 bined as it was with want of principle and feel- 
 ing, made it an easy matter for her to outwit 
 her husband, who was quite as dull as he was 
 conscientious. 
 
 "I hope the mischief done by Crewe is not 
 irremediable, since you are able to go back to 
 town," she said soothingly. 
 
 *'His own attitude in the matter has been of 
 the greatest assistance," replied Sir Cecil. "I 
 must tell you, Catherine, that I owe my dis- 
 covery of the whole affair to George Chilcott. 
 He gave me a hint that he feared I was relying 
 too much upon Crewe's integrity, and drew 
 my attention to the fact that the felling of the 
 timber last winter in the Amery and Woolaway 
 woods had been excessive. Crewe had evidently 
 counted on my neglecting to visit so outlying a 
 portion of the property. I discovered that the 
 woods had been practically destroyed, and that I 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 213 
 
 was actually being charged for the thinning of 
 the coppices while he had been selling quantities 
 of valuable and well-grown larch, and pocketing 
 the proceeds. One discovery, of course, led to 
 another, but I will not trouble you with the 
 details. I have been grossly deceived and cheated 
 through a long course of years, and my own 
 neglect has been the contributory cause, leading 
 him to become bolder and bolder as time went 
 on, until he was utterly reckless, and believed 
 he could do anything he chose with impunity.** 
 
 "What will you do with him?'* 
 
 *'Why — I fear you may think me weak, but, 
 since he threw himself on my mercy, I have 
 decided not to prosecute. It is not altogether 
 from motives of charity," said the scrupulous 
 gentleman; *'but I am anxious to avoid a pub- 
 licity and scandal that would, in effect, be very 
 mortifying. As regards the moral aspect of the 
 case, those who have worked under Crewe, and 
 who could not have been altogether ignorant of 
 his untrustworthiness, are now aware that he has 
 been dismissed in disgrace, and I do not think 
 any further details need transpire, since he has 
 rendered it unnecessary for us to call witnesses 
 by confessing the whole of his misdeeds. He 
 has speculated so wildly with the money of which 
 he has defrauded me, that he has actually profited 
 nothing. It appears to me there is nothing to be 
 gained by punishing him further. He is an old 
 
214 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 man — ^he will find no more employment — he is 
 ruined. He served us well enough in the past, 
 when my poor uncle was alive to look after him.'* 
 
 **I cannot help being glad he will not end his 
 days in prison," said Catherine, apologetically. 
 
 "He is more likely to end them in the work- 
 house," said Cecil gloomily. *'But it is not 
 Crewe of whom I am thinking now, but of myself." 
 
 *'Yes?" 
 
 **I have not troubled Augusta with the details 
 of this painful affair. For one thing, she has not 
 time to read letters, and for another it is too 
 long to write about. I have merely told her 
 that I am dissatisfied with Crewe, and conse- 
 quently intending to dismiss him. But I must 
 now break to her my further intention of taking 
 up our residence at Welwysbere once more. I 
 can no longer reconcile it with my conscience to 
 neglect my obvious duty. With the assistance of 
 young Ash and his accountant, and the valuable 
 help afforded us by poor Crewe himself, during 
 the past three weeks, I have pretty well come 
 to a full understanding of the state of affairs, and 
 I am determined to act upon that understanding. 
 I am sure that Augusta will — nay, that she must 
 — enter into my feelings." 
 
 Catherine felt equally sure she would not, and 
 foresaw a deadlock; nor did Sir Cecil's careworn 
 and anxious face express the hope and certainty 
 that his words implied. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 215 
 
 *'You will now understand, my dear Catherine, 
 why, after pressing you to entrust Philippa to 
 our care, I have been unable to share Augusta's 
 pleasure in her visit. But I am none the less 
 grateful to you for sparing her to us, and I hope to 
 be with her in London to-morrow. I wish you 
 had been able to accompany her," said the inno- 
 cent gentleman, who had no idea that Augusta 
 had not included Catherine in her invitation. 
 *'But you are not to be tempted from your duty 
 here." 
 
 **It is very hard to know where one's duty 
 lies," said Catherine, with a smile and a sigh. 
 "Perhaps I cling too much to my chosen occupa- 
 tions, and should rather be looking after my 
 daughter." 
 
 **I am sure Augusta will take every care of 
 her," he said, believing sincerely that he spoke 
 truth. **You know that we look upon Philippa 
 almost as our own child — ^and a child to be proud 
 of — " he added, with a slight characteristic inclina- 
 tion of his head towards Catherine, as though 
 he wished to intimate that he acknowledged 
 her right to share in compliments regarding her 
 offspring. *'It is a great consolation to me, Cath- 
 erine, that the next owner of Welwysbere should 
 have had the inestimable benefit and advantage 
 of your careful training. When I look around 
 me here I never fail to recognise your — your 
 positive genius for administrative order." 
 
216 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 **I am afraid," said Catherine, smiling in 
 spite of herself, *'that Phil has not profited much 
 by my training, such as it is." 
 
 "She is too young to show us yet what she 
 can do. Your example will not be wasted upon 
 her as she grows older," he said with conviction. 
 **I was very much struck at Whitsuntide by the 
 surprising extent of her knowledge of country 
 affairs, and the — ^the — remarkable candour and 
 courage with which she expressed her opinions." 
 
 "She does not lack candour or courage." 
 
 "Believe me, in the position Philippa will one 
 day be called upon to occupy, those qualities are 
 invaluable," said Sir Cecil, earnestly, and Cath- 
 erine could not deny the truth of his contention. 
 
 "Poor Cecil! they say he is so like his uncle, 
 when he is but the shadow of Philip," she thought, 
 and realised more strongly than ever before that 
 Sir Cecil's magnificent and striking appearance 
 was but the disguise worn by a dull and feeble 
 personality. 
 
 "And he looks such a very 'parfitte gentil 
 Knight,' " she thought regretfully, looking up at 
 the straight clear-cut profile. 
 
 She watched him as he rode slowly away, a fine 
 horseman on a fine horse, sitting very square 
 and erect in his saddle, with a carriage of the 
 head and shoulders silhouetted against the sunset 
 sky that made his likeness to her dead husband 
 almost painfully exact. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 217 
 
 He had declined Catherine's timid offer of 
 supper, for it would not have occurred to Sir 
 Cecil as possible that, having ordered his dinner 
 to be served at half-past eight as usual, he should 
 not return punctually to eat it ; and in the midst 
 of his heartfelt confidences to Catherine he did 
 not forget to glance occasionally at his watch, 
 and to inquire solicitously whether his late visit 
 were not encroaching upon her valuable time. 
 Thus she recollected afterwards that it was 
 exactly half-past seven when Cecil Adelstane 
 took leave of her, and rode away from Shepherd's 
 Rest in the direction of his home. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Phi LI pp A was of an age, and also of a disposition, 
 to be more attracted by men of mature age than 
 by boys, and she was very much piqued, upon 
 arrival at the Lundys* party, that Colonel Moore 
 did not immediately ask her to dance. Instead, 
 he took up a position by Augusta's side, and 
 remained there immovably; smiling at the boys 
 and girls who were taking a more active part in 
 the proceedings, but evincing no incHnation to 
 join them. 
 
 Philippa had divined that her adored Mme. 
 Minart held the gallant colonel in very different 
 estimation from the rest of the circle which at 
 at present surrounded her young charge. Mme. 
 Minart was perhaps not so much on her guard 
 with Philippa as she would have been with a 
 pupil less devoted to her; and she permitted 
 herself to laugh quite openly at Augusta, thus 
 destroying the last shred of Philippa 's illusions 
 regarding her cousin's perfection. 
 
 This ridicule was not altogether in accordance, 
 however, with Philippa's taste, and she showed 
 sufficient uneasiness and disapproval to keep 
 
 218 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 219 
 
 Mme. Minart's wit within bounds, which she 
 might otherwise have exceeded, through the live- 
 liness of her disposition, and the depths of her 
 contempt for Lady Adelstane's understanding. 
 
 But although David Moore did not invite 
 Philippa, nor any one else, to dance with him, but 
 occupied himself incessantly in paying attention 
 to the elder ladies present, he yet watched her 
 with great interest, and agreed heartily with 
 Augusta's whispered opinions that she was much 
 the handsomest of all the youthful beauties there 
 assembled. 
 
 Augusta had really bestowed some thought 
 upon the selection of her young cousin's dress, 
 which was at once to be suitable and becom- 
 ing for a large dance, and yet to indicate that 
 the wearer had not yet joined the ranks of the 
 debutantes. 
 
 As Philippa's height and development, and 
 the sculptural severity of her straight features, 
 made her look some years older than she was, 
 the desired effect could only be obtained by a 
 school-girl coifjurBy and accordingly her bright 
 chestnut hair was combed loosely off her fair 
 brow, and tied with an immense bow at the 
 back of her neck, so that it hung in a single 
 waving cluster of curls below her waist, and very 
 hot and heavy she found it. She was much 
 mortified by the necessity for thus advertising 
 her youth, at the expense, as she considered, 
 
220 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 of her appearance; and the youthful Lord Ken- 
 tisbury sympathised warmly with her indignation, 
 which she confided to him, for they were by this 
 time on very friendly terms. 
 
 * 'Though you're quite wrong, you know, to 
 think it isn't becoming,'* he hastened to assure 
 her; **I bet you anything that any girl in the 
 room would like to wear her hair like that — if 
 she had hair like yours." 
 
 "Nonsense, it looks ridiculous,** said Philippa^ 
 but she blushed with pleasure, for the language 
 of compliment — from the lips of a young man — 
 was new to her. 
 
 **But, of course, it*s a beastly shame not to 
 let you do it as you choose. Extraordinary thing, 
 one's people never believe one knows what one 
 likes best." 
 
 "And what suits one best," said Philippa, 
 seriously; "though I am very grateful to Cousin 
 Augusta for taking such pains to choose such a 
 lovely dress for me, you know, Charlie." 
 
 "Of course," he said, gravely, and if the young 
 man smiled inwardly at the ingenuousness and 
 country simplicity which enabled Philippa thus 
 to discuss her toilette with him, he did not like 
 her any the less for such a display of confidence. 
 In fact, to the delight and astonishment of his 
 mother, the youthful marquis seemed inclined 
 to fall in love with the very maiden she had 
 selected for him (with the aid of Lady Sarah 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 221 
 
 and Augusta) as the most suitable bride in the 
 world. 
 
 Excitement and pleasure had this evening 
 bestowed upon Philippa all the animation which 
 she usually lacked, and in her white and silver 
 gown, which half revealed and half concealed 
 the fair arms and fairer throat, her childish, 
 noble beauty of form and feature shone con- 
 spicuously, even among so many pretty, well- 
 dressed, well-bred, and well-drilled maidens. 
 
 "I had no idea she was half so good-looking," 
 said Augusta contentedly; **she will be quite a 
 beauty, you know, in a few years* time, and 
 she has lost a great deal of her gaucherie already, 
 in the short time she has been with me. You 
 see what a difference it makes when a girl is 
 properly dressed.'* 
 
 "I am going to make you angry,** said David, 
 **with my perversity in assuring you that I 
 found her as handsome at Welwysbere in her 
 blue frock and garden hat.** 
 
 "Oh, that is all nonsense! Or if you did, no 
 one else could. I will tell you a secret. We are 
 all determined to marry her to the young man 
 6he is dancing with now." 
 
 A man of five-and-thirty is seldom pleased 
 to hear that a beautiful girl is destined to be be- 
 stowed in marriage upon a youth of her own 
 age. 
 
 "Fancy wasting her on a cub like that,** 
 
222 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 David thought, with disgust. *'That boy!" he 
 said aloud, in sufficiently expressive accents. 
 
 "That boy, as you call him," said Augusta, 
 somewhat nettled, * * is ' ' 
 
 "Oh, I know who he is," said David, who was 
 a trifle outspoken for the London fashionable 
 world, where, to say the truth, he did not feel 
 much at home. **It is yoimg Kentisbury, and I 
 have no doubt he would be considered a first-rate 
 match. I know he is one of our biggest land- 
 owners " 
 
 "He is quite a charming young man — ^and a 
 cousin of Cecil's," interrupted Augusta, rather 
 coldly. 
 
 "A pity nature hasn't given him a better 
 profile," retorted David; "a fellow with such an 
 outline has no choice but to be a fool." 
 
 Augusta was inclined to be annoyed; but she 
 reflected that Colonel Moore was a hero and 
 somewhat of a lion, so that if his manners were 
 rough he could be smiled upon indulgently all 
 the same; because such want of pohsh was in 
 keeping, as she considered, with the character. 
 
 "You are really incorrigible. And why are 
 you not dancing? You have stuck by my 
 side the whole evening," she reproached him, 
 coquettishly. 
 
 "I don't know any of them. They belong to 
 a different world," said David. **And all these 
 strange dances are Greek to me, to tell you the 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 223 
 
 truth. A plain waltz or polka is all very well, 
 but these mazurkas and reels and whatnots are 
 out of my line." 
 
 "It is only for the boys and girls — who learn 
 all sorts of wonderful dances nowadays," said 
 Augusta. "I am told a children's party of to-day 
 is a very pretty sight." 
 
 "Well this is a children's party, and I am sure 
 it is a pretty sight." 
 
 "No, no, children's parties belong to the win- 
 ter. This is a real boy and girl affair, and I am 
 quite glad such dances have come into fashion 
 again. It is as it should be. I have no patience 
 with all these middle-aged married women pranc- 
 ing about," said Augusta, with an indignation 
 not the less warm because her increasing em- 
 bonpoint and breathlessness had long rendered 
 such prancing quite impossible for her. 
 
 But her indignation was transitory, for Augusta 
 was in high good humour. Everything was as it 
 should be. Many of her best friends were present, 
 and her hostess had found time to congratulate 
 her warmly upon the beauty of her debutante. 
 
 The summer night was perfect, still and warm; 
 so that the open windows, and the blocks of 
 green transparent ice, overshadowed by roses 
 and palms, which decorated every comer of the 
 rooms were at once necessary and agreeable. 
 The house was pleasantly cool without being 
 draughty. 
 
224 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 The courtyard, transformed into a tent, which 
 was also a bower of blossom, was so perfectly 
 arranged as to be quite as cool and comfortable 
 as the house; and the supper here was every- 
 thing Augusta could wish. 
 
 She enjoyed her prawns in aspic and stuffed 
 quail, and Peche Melba, in company with Major 
 Cymbert, with whom she spent a very pleasant 
 hour at a little table in a comer, while the 
 conscientious Philippa searched in vain for her 
 chaperon. 
 
 Philippa's conscientiousness was not the least 
 part of her charm, and there was something 
 piquant in the combination of so much primness 
 with so much beauty, which atoned for her 
 excessive dignity of bearing towards the young 
 gentlemen who were her partners. 
 
 Young Lord Kentisbury, to be sure, was treated 
 with especial confidence, but then he was a 
 cousin, and an acquaintance of some days' stand- 
 ing. But even Charlie was not permitted to es- 
 cort her round the illuminated garden, as he 
 ardently proposed and desired. 
 
 Augusta had told Philippa that she was to 
 return to her side after every dance, and that any 
 other course of proceeding was not good form, 
 and Philippa was quite determined that she 
 would be good form. In matters where she was 
 less well instructed, however, she displayed her 
 natural independence of character very plainly; 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 225 
 
 and when her hostess led up to her a would-be 
 partner whose appearance did not attract her, 
 and who bashfully invited her to dance, the 
 young lady said *'No, thank you," without a 
 moment's hesitation, and, with no idea of soften- 
 ing her blunt refusal by murmured excuses of 
 previous engagements, she turned her back upon 
 the astonished youth. 
 
 Colonel Moore was an amused spectator of this 
 little incident, and, being of an unconventional 
 and indeed somewhat over-candid disposition 
 himself, was disposed rather to admire than to 
 condemn the frankness of Philippa's behaviour. 
 He stepped forward, invited her to go down to 
 supper, and was flattered by the alacrity of her 
 acceptance. 
 
 "I have been down three times already," she 
 informed him, as he found her the strawberry ice 
 she chose as her refreshment. * ' Boys are always 
 wanting supper." 
 
 "Then I presume you have had something 
 more substantial on one of the three occasons." 
 
 "No, I had a strawberry ice every time," said 
 Philippa, calmly. "It seems to me stupid to 
 waste time over eating and drinking when one is 
 enjoying oneself." 
 
 "I am glad you are enjoying yourself." 
 
 She coloured. 
 
 "I should be enjo>ang myself more if I danced 
 better. I dance badly," she said in mortified 
 
 15 
 
226 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 tones. **Yet I had lessons when I was twelve. 
 A man came all the way from Bath to teach me. 
 But I have been obliged to sit out most of the 
 dances — with my partners, of course," she added 
 with dignity. *'When they have sensible things 
 like waltzes and polkas of course I can dance." 
 
 **That is just what I have been saying.'* 
 
 **It is different for you. You have been in 
 deserts and places. No one expects you to care 
 about such nonsense. But I ought to know all 
 the things the other people of my age know," 
 she said resentfully. 
 
 *'But still you are enjoying yourself." 
 
 **0h, yes, I have never enjoyed anything so 
 much. It all looks like fairyland. The house is 
 like an enchanted palace. I have never seen 
 anything like it before. The girls wear such 
 lovely frocks. I wish I knew them all. They all 
 seem to know each other," she said wistfully, 
 "but I scarcely know any one except Joanna, 
 Charlie's horrid sister, whom I can't bear. But 
 still it is delicious; and the roses are much more 
 beautiful than any we ever grow." 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 "Does it not seem a pity to waste such perfect 
 blooms on a single evening?" 
 
 Philippa considered the question seriously. 
 
 "No, I do not think it does," she remarked, 
 practically. "Roses only last a very few days 
 even if you don't cut them, and only a few people 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 227 
 
 see them in a garden. And if you do cut them, 
 even with the greatest care, changing the water 
 and cHpping the stalks as mamma always does — 
 they are never the same the day after they're 
 gathered. What can it matter if they live only 
 half the usual time, so long as they look pretty 
 and please people?" 
 
 "There is a good deal in that," he said, laugh- 
 ing; and then he thought suddenly of Deha — 
 with that contraction of the heart which accom- 
 panies a remembrance of the beloved dead in the 
 midst of gaiety or rejoicing — Delia, who would 
 be always young and beautiful in his memory 
 and in the memory of all who loved her, because 
 she too had lived only half the usual time, and 
 had looked pretty and pleased people. 
 
 **Do you go to a great many parties?" 
 said Philippa's voice, breaking in upon his 
 reflections. 
 
 ' ' I have been to one or two. Now I have come 
 to live in London, I suppose I must do as others 
 do, more or less." 
 
 **Don't you like living in London?" 
 
 **I like my work, now I'm beginning to get into 
 it; but of course working in an office all day, 
 when one is used to an outdoor life, is a bit irk- 
 some," said David, rather surprised to find him- 
 self talking almost confidentially to this mere 
 child, as he told himself she was; but the deep 
 blue, long-lashed eyes were fixed with sincere 
 
228 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 interest upon him, and a child who is sympa- 
 thetic and who believes in the speaker is a good 
 listener. 
 
 Philippa criticised Catherine; secretly believ- 
 ing herself wiser than her mother, and indeed 
 than any of her relatives; as the majority of 
 young people, secretly or openly, always have 
 been accustomed to consider themselves wiser 
 than their parents and guardians. But she did 
 not criticise David Moore, and was, on the con- 
 trary, exceedingly flattered that he should talk 
 to her thus, and pleased to observe that young 
 Kentisbury hovered round uneasily, not daring 
 to interrupt, nor to claim his partner for the 
 dance that was lawfully his own. For, though 
 he might be one of the largest land-owners in 
 Great Britain, and the head of a noble house, he 
 was also a subaltern in the Guards, and enter- 
 tained a very wholesome respect for his distin- 
 guished senior. 
 
 *'What is your work, Cousin David?" 
 "Sitting in a very small room and writing 
 endless letters," he said smiling. 
 
 *'Why do they want a soldier to do that?" 
 "Because the letters have to do with military 
 subjects." 
 
 "I see, and they want some one with practi- 
 cal experience," said Philippa, nodding. "That 
 seems sensible. But when will you go back to 
 fighting?" 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 229 
 
 **Why, in the next war, I hope!" he said, 
 laughing. **But in the ordinary course I shall 
 go back to soldiering in about three years, I 
 expect. All depends upon how I get on, you 
 know.'* 
 
 *'I would rather do active work than writing, 
 but of course one ought to try all kinds of Hfe," 
 said PhiHppa, very calmly. 
 
 "Do you want to try all kinds of life?" he 
 said, half jesting and half earnestly. 
 
 "I intend to," she said, very seriously. "So 
 far as a girl can, you know. Of course one cannot 
 do all one wishes, like a man. But I would like 
 to see a great many people, and visit a great 
 many countries, before I settled down in my 
 own home for good." 
 
 "Would it not make home seem dull after- 
 wards?" 
 
 "No," said Philippa, surprised; "when one has 
 seen everything one is content to settle down; 
 not when one has seen nobody and been nowhere. 
 Unless indeed," she added thoughtfully, "one 
 has a very vivid imagination and is very fond 
 of books, like mamma. She is quite contented to 
 read about things and says it's the same as seeing 
 them. It's not the same to me." 
 
 "Nor to me," said David, simply, "though 
 I'm fond enough of reading." 
 
 "But you will settle down some day." 
 Shall I?" said David. "Well, I suppose so"; 
 
 <(i 
 
230 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 he shrugged his shoulders. "Most men dream 
 of settling down some day, but I should like 
 to cling on a little longer before I indulge in such 
 dreams." 
 
 "When will they make you a K.C.B.?*' 
 
 "Probably never," but he smiled. 
 
 "They are sure to in the end," she said con- 
 fidently. "If I were a man I should be prouder 
 of the honours I had earned than of the honours 
 I inherited." 
 
 "So would I, in a way — ^though, in my case, 
 there's no one in particular left to care whether 
 I get any or not, which does away with pride 
 altogether." 
 
 "Why — we're all proud of you," cried Phi- 
 lippa, indignantly, "but I would Hke you to get a 
 K.C.B.," she added, and then blushed at her own 
 enthusiasm. The warm flush softened her severe 
 young beauty into a loveliness that must have ap- 
 pealed to a harder heart than David's, who could 
 not be insensible to such innocent flattery. 
 
 "Then I must do my best to win my spurs — 
 when so fair a princess bids me," he said, laughing 
 and colouring; but he drew the slender hand 
 through his arm rather tenderly, as he led Phi- 
 lippa upstairs. 
 
 After this interlude he was conscious of a 
 slight change in the sentiments with which he 
 regarded the tall, youthful vestal in white and 
 silver, who but a few moments since had been to 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 231 
 
 him only Catherine's child. He realised that 
 Philippa had entered upon her inheritance of 
 womanhood, and had a very distinct personality 
 and will and wishes of her own. 
 
 *'And Catherine said she was a baby," he re- 
 flected, and laughed slightly to himself, forgetting 
 that the side of her character which Philippa 
 had shown him was different indeed from that 
 which she exhibited towards her mother. 
 
 There was another person whose first careless 
 sentiments of admiration and liking were changing 
 towards Philippa Adelstane; but as young Lord 
 Kentisbury was some fifteen years younger than 
 David Moore, this change was proportionately 
 swifter; and his boyish comphments became 
 open declarations of love before the close of that 
 memorable dance. 
 
 Philippa drove home with her chaperon through 
 the grey dawn of the streets, too much excited to 
 perceive the odd appearance which Augusta's 
 complexion presented in the unkind light of the 
 morning. 
 
 Charlie's protestations rang in her ears, only 
 to be dismissed with scorn as boyish nonsense 
 at one moment, and recalled at the next as sweet- 
 est food for maiden vanity. 
 
 Other words had made a deeper impression 
 upon her than the babble of young Kentisbury. 
 
 **He said — he said he would do his best to win 
 his spurs" — thought Philippa, with burning cheeks 
 
232 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 and beating heart, ''as though he had not won 
 them a thousand times over if there were any 
 justice in this world." 
 
 Catherine had acquired the habit of sitting up 
 late and reading, in the hope that she might thus be 
 able to court sleep the more easily when she at 
 last retired to rest. Miss Dulcinea kept early 
 hours, and as she led an active outdoor life, and 
 was possessed of a peculiarly peaceful tempera- 
 ment, she found no difficulty in obtaining nine 
 or ten hours sleep out of the twenty-four. But 
 with the departure of Philippa, the demon worry 
 had taken possession of poor Catherine's pillow; 
 presenting to her tormented imagination a thou- 
 sand vivid pictures of her child in danger and 
 difficulty, so that she sometimes started up with 
 the cold dews of anguish and terror breaking forth 
 on her brow; ready to dash off, as it were, into 
 the darkness of the night, and rescue her darling 
 from she knew not what. It was the thought 
 of Philippa's own vexation at such an exhibition 
 of maternal over-fondness that alone restrained her 
 from actually putting into practice in the daytime 
 the plans she evolved in the silence of the night, 
 for travelling up to town, and seeing for herself 
 how her child was faring at the hands of Augusta. 
 
 In the daylight she could view the matter more 
 calmly, put a curb upon her nervous fancy, and 
 dwell with pleasure on the thought that in a 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 233 
 
 few weeks Philippa must be restored to her. But 
 in the dark, philosophy failed ; she tossed sleepless 
 until the dawn brought its own strange soothing, 
 and the gleam of a new day breaking over the 
 spires of the larches somehow calmed her troubled 
 spirit, so that she would be sleeping heavily at 
 the hour when she was accustomed to rise. 
 
 She had discovered, or fancied, that the demon 
 was in part exorcised by a few moments spent in 
 the silent immensity of the night outside her 
 cottage, before she went up to her own room; 
 and on the night of Cecil's visit she closed her 
 book a little before twelve o'clock, and stole out 
 into the garden, opening the door very softly that 
 the sleeping household might not be disturbed. 
 Here she was able to forget that Philippa was 
 at the present moment very probably over-heating 
 or over-tiring herself in a London ballroom; 
 she forgot to wonder concerning her child's health 
 or her appearance, or the measure of her fiHal 
 affection; and stood, with hushed breath and 
 tranquil spirit, gazing across the quiet enclosure 
 of her own beloved domain — so unfamiliar and 
 ghosthke in the light of a pale moon, obscured 
 by scudding clouds — to the valley below, half 
 veiled in a faint silver mist, whence emerged 
 the dark outline of the square church tower 
 which marked Philip Adelstane's resting-place. 
 She looked upwards to the innumerable glittering 
 worlds of the silent unfathomable universe; and 
 
234 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 as she looked her cares, her troubles, and her 
 anxieties appeared small and transient, even to 
 vanishing point. 
 
 Then a sound recalled them, and her musing 
 spirit returned, hurried and alarmed, to earth 
 and the Hfe of every day. 
 
 There was the gleam of a lantern through the 
 hedge; the sound, unusual at this hour, of a 
 man's step in the lane beyond her garden gate. 
 
 "What is it? I am here," she called, with that 
 sudden leap of the heart too familiar to one 
 whose days and nights are shadowed with that 
 nameless apprehension of motherhood. 
 
 At the gate the man lifted his lantern, and 
 slackened his pace coming up the path, as though 
 to get breath for his intended communication, 
 and Catherine suddenly sighed with relief to 
 perceive he was not from the post-office. 
 
 It could not then be a telegram concerning 
 Philippa; her fears lessened, and she stood await- 
 ing him in the open doorway, which threw a 
 square illumination on the gravel path and lawn ; 
 in which he presently stood, and revealed him- 
 self as a groom from the Abbey. 
 
 *'I beg your pardon, my lady,** he panted, 
 **they sent me up — I said I cude run in the time 
 it wude take tu get back tu stable and saddle a 
 harse. 'Tis a dreadful accident, my lady, has 
 happened tu Sir Cecil.'* 
 
 "An accident!'* 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 235 
 
 **0h, my lady, I don't know how tu tell on't. I 
 be arl shaking myself,** said the man, with a 
 sob of agitation. *'Him didn't come home tu's 
 dinner as usual, and us was surprised, vor yu 
 know how punctual he du be. But us didn't 
 know where he was and thart he'd been detained 
 like. And about an hour ago some one brart 
 word his harse had been seen grazing down tu 
 Aplin's vield, wi' his bridle broke. Us arl started 
 out then in a fright tu luke vor'm; and vound 
 'un, my lady — now doantee be opset hke," said 
 the man in a pleading voice of subdued grief and 
 excitement; **we'm vound *un tu the bottom of 
 the lane here, at the turning arf the high road. 
 There be the mark where the harse putt un's 
 fute tu a hole and fell, where zum vule had hitched 
 out a big stone to stiddy a waggon, very like; 
 and us thinks the master's head must have struck 
 the stone in fading, my lady; vor 'tis clear he 
 never muved no mar, and the doctor says as the 
 life has been out of him vor hours." 
 
 Catherine was too much stunned to speak. The 
 life had been out of him for hours, and that evening 
 he had bidden her farewell, with a smile on his 
 handsome lips; and ridden away, in the very 
 prime and glory of his manhood, full of thought 
 and hope and planning for the morrow — who now 
 lay low in the silence of death. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A MESSENGER With a letter was despatched by the 
 one o'clock train from Ilverton, which was due 
 to arrive in London in the early morning; and 
 Catherine, to whom all arrangements were of 
 necessity referred, thus broke the terrible news 
 of Sir Cecil's fatal accident as tenderly as possible 
 to Augusta, and added a request that a message 
 might be sent at once to old Lady Sarah's faithful 
 maid, who would best know how to prepare her 
 aged mistress for the shock that awaited her. 
 
 Through the long and dreary morning which 
 succeeded the catastrophe, she waited anxiously 
 for a telegram from Augusta, making no doubt 
 that she and Philippa would come home by the 
 first possible train. But the day was well ad- 
 vanced before the telegram arrived, and the con- 
 tents were not at all what Catherine expected. 
 
 ** Absolutely prostrate and helpless. Please 
 come here at once and without delay. Urgent. — 
 Augusta." 
 
 *'She ought to come home. How can she leave 
 him lying there alone, and not come?" said Cather- 
 ine, shedding indignant tears. "What can I do? 
 
 236 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 237 
 
 It is not as if I had ever been anything to Augusta, 
 or she to me." 
 
 "Oh, my dear, my dear, you are kind and 
 gentle; and she is a very helpless person, as she 
 truly says. I am sure I should want you if I 
 were in such a trouble as hers," sobbed Miss Dul- 
 cinea, who had been completely overcome by the 
 news which greeted her on waking. 
 
 "Of course I must go if she wants me," Cath- 
 erine said, almost angrily, "but it will only be to 
 bring her back; and if she wanted me without 
 delay, why did she delay so that I can only go by 
 the slow afternoon train, which does not get there 
 until past nine o'clock at night?" 
 
 But there was a gleam of comfort in her sor- 
 row at the thought that her child must now be 
 restored to her arms. 
 
 **And I shall never let her go again — to suffer 
 as I have suffered," thought Catherine, "after this 
 terrible lesson of the uncertainty of life." 
 
 She wept as she packed a very few things in a 
 small hand-case and dressing-bag, resolved that 
 no entreaties of Augusta should detain her or 
 Philippa in London. 
 
 "It is Cecil, poor, poor Cecil, to whom we owe 
 all the duty and affection and respect which we 
 shall ever be able to show him now," she sobbed. 
 * ' What is Augusta to us ? — cold and selfish, think- 
 ing only of her own health and comfort while he 
 lies dead in his own bouse — ^the last of his race, 
 
238 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 except my darling!" Then she sank back in her 
 chair, appalled by the recollection that the heavy 
 burden of responsibility which had fallen from 
 the dead man's shoulders would now devolve upon 
 her child. 
 
 It was Philippa who was the last of the Adel- 
 stanes — ^whose inheritance had thus, with terri- 
 ble suddenness, come upon her — and Catherine's 
 heart sank as she thought of the changes awaiting 
 her. 
 
 Strive as she would to put all such thoughts 
 aside, they returned upon her again and again 
 while she made ready for her solitary journey. 
 
 "Take me with you," implored Lily, clinging 
 about her with passionate tears and distressing 
 persistence. 
 
 **I cannot, Lily, but I will come back to-morrow. 
 Yes, I promise,'* said Catherine, strengthening her 
 own resolution by thus giving her word to the 
 child. "You will take care of Aunt Dulcinea 
 and of everything for me?" 
 
 "You must not be troublesome," said Aunt 
 Dulcinea, admonishing her very kindly; but she 
 shook her head over the selfishness of Lily, though 
 she had always found a thousand excuses for 
 the selfishness of Philippa. 
 
 "Aunt Clara will come and fetch me when you 
 are gone," said Lily, bursting into fresh tears. 
 
 "I wouldn't let you go," said Aunt Dulcinea, 
 and her soft heart melted. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 239 
 
 *'I shall be back before they know I am gone,** 
 said Catherine soothingly. 
 
 "Granny knows everything, and Aunt Dulcinea 
 is frightened of Granny — you know she is," said 
 Lily. * ' But if you will forbid me to go, I can tell 
 them so when they come for me.'* 
 
 * 'There, there, I forbid you,** said Catherine, 
 and she fondled the little fragile creature who 
 clung to her so faithfully. 
 
 Exhausted by grief, wakefulness, and excite- 
 ment, Catherine fell asleep in the train as daylight 
 waned, and was astonished when she woke, 
 somewhat chilled and stiff, to find herself at her 
 journey *s end. 
 
 By the time her cab drew up at the house in 
 Belgrave Square she had realised afresh all that 
 had happened, and the tears started again to her 
 eyes at the sight of the old butler*s familiar face 
 at the front door. She greeted him kindly, for 
 his own distress was very obvious. 
 
 **Is Lady Adelstane able to see me at once? 
 And where is Miss Philippa? Is she sitting up 
 for me? I should like to go first to her," she 
 said, wringing the old man's hand, which he put 
 out to her trembling, as though he scarce knew 
 what he did. 
 
 "Oh, ma*am — oh, my lady!** said Pilkington. 
 
 "Do not — do not — I know it is terrible — but 
 indeed we must not give way,'* said Catherine 
 with a sob in her throat. 
 
240 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 *' We wasn't sure — we didn't send to meet you — 
 my lady, but — you came by the four o'clock 
 train?" he faltered. 
 
 **Yes," she said, surprised. 
 
 **And there was no — you did not get the 
 second telegram? I am afraid it was sent off 
 too late. But her ladyship was that distracted — 
 she didn't well know what she was doing." 
 
 ' ' What do you mean ? ' ' 
 
 *'0h, my lady, come in! You mustn't stand 
 here — ^what am I thinking of ? Come in — come in , " 
 said Pilkington. ''Her ladyship's upstairs, most 
 out of her mind, and here's dinner ready for 
 you in the dining-room." 
 
 Catherine followed him, almost wondering to 
 see the steady and self-possessed Pilkington thus 
 utterly unstrung. 
 
 *'What second telegram?" she repeated as he 
 closed the dining-room door upon the little com- 
 motion in the hall — the footmen carrying in her 
 modest luggage and paying the cabman. 
 
 The old man looked at her with an expression 
 so imploring as to be almost wild. 
 
 **To ask you — ^whether — to ask you if — Miss 
 Philippa had gone back to Welwysbere — to you, 
 my lady?" he cried, putting his shaking hands 
 together. *'For she's not been seen here since she 
 came home from the dance at three o'clock in the 
 morning." 
 
 Catherine knew not what she said nor what 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 241 
 
 she looked, and was not conscious how she got out 
 of the room or upstairs; but the echo of Pilking- 
 ton's words had not died from her ears before 
 she found herself holding Augusta's shoulder in 
 the drawing-room, almost shaking her — hoarsely- 
 asking her over and over again what she had done 
 with her child. She was in truth for a few mo- 
 ments like a mad woman, knowing not what she 
 said nor what Augusta answered. The pent-up 
 thoughts, suppressed anxiety, and hidden jealous 
 resentment of weeks found words and poured 
 themselves forth, but so incoherently as merely 
 to frighten Augusta without reaching her under- 
 standing. All she knew and felt was that Cather- 
 ine was like one possessed and insane with blind 
 fury, and that such behaviour towards a woman 
 just bereaved of her husband was an outrage. 
 She screamed with terror and indignation, and 
 it was Mme. Minart who flew to her assistance 
 and who put Catherine into a chair by the open 
 window with a mixture of authority and soothing, 
 and forced her presently to swallow a glass of wine. 
 
 "Who are you?'* Catherine faltered, regaining 
 some measure of her self-command. 
 
 "I am nobody — nothing," said Mme. Minart 
 in her impatient tones of suppressed force. She 
 fixed her great dark eyes upon Catherine's white 
 face with some compassion. "Be calm. Of 
 what use this agony, this emotion ? It is not thus 
 you can help yourself or others." 
 
 i6 
 
242 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 Catherine gave her a strange wild look. 
 
 "I know now who you are. You are right — I 
 must be calm. I must think — and act." She 
 put her hands to her hair, smoothed it, and rose 
 from the arm-chair, refreshed physically by the 
 wine and mentally by the Frenchwoman's re- 
 proaches. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Augusta,*' said Catherine, 
 and her voice grew almost steady. *'Now tell 
 me quickly and plainly what has happened, and 
 what you have done with Philippa." 
 
 Augusta, fat and helpless, reclining on a Louis 
 Seize couch among embroidered cushions, and 
 clothed in flowing lace draperies, was in very 
 poor case to speak quickly or plainly. 
 
 ''Everything has happened," she wailed — 
 *' everything at once. It is appalling! I sent 
 for you — what more could I do? I am sure 
 you cannot reproach me more than I reproach 
 myself for ever undertaking the charge of another 
 person's child. But he wished it. I can't realise 
 what has happened. I am like a person in a 
 dream. Oh, Catherine! he can't really be dead — 
 all in a moment like that" — ^her voice rose to a 
 scream — "and you to come and reproach me!" 
 
 She hid her face in her lace handkerchief, 
 really unable to continue, and Catherine wrung 
 her hands in distress and impatience. 
 
 *' Where is Roper? I trusted my child to her," 
 she said, turning to the door. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 243 
 
 "Roper knows nothing. I will tell you, since 
 Miladi cannot," said Mme. Minart. *'Miladi took 
 your daughter to a ball last night, and returned 
 about three in the morning. Philippa came 
 to my room to tell me of her enjoyment, and I 
 told her that in the morning she must sleep late 
 after a fatigue so great. Also I unfastened her 
 dress, for she had forbid Roper, who is old, to sit 
 up for her; and she knew that to me it is nothing 
 to be disturbed. At seven this morning I rise 
 and go to seek Roper, that she may not disturb 
 the child; and I meet her on the stairs, crying, 
 for she has seen the servant who brought the letter 
 from Devonshire for Miladi, and he has told her 
 of the terrible news. I still forbid that the child 
 should be waked to hear this." 
 
 Catherine put out her hand impulsively, as 
 though to thank Mme. Minart for this thought of 
 Philippa, but the Frenchwoman did not pause 
 in her rapid low-toned recital. 
 
 "I say to Roper, 'Let her sleep as long as she 
 will; it will be time enough that she should 
 know. What can she do?* And Roper agree, 
 but say I am not to tell her, she will tell herself. 
 What would you? The vulgar find a certain joy 
 even in the telling of bad news," said Mme. 
 Minart disdainfully. *'I say I will certainly 
 not tell her, and I go to seek the maid of Miladi. 
 She too says Miladi will know soon enough, and 
 will let her sleep on, and give the letter only when 
 
244 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 she wakes, since there is nothing — no more to be 
 done for the poor gentleman. And since Miladi is '* 
 — there was an inflection of satire in Mme. Min- 
 art's tones — "so weak, so delicate, that she will 
 need all her strength in a grief so terrible. At 
 nine o'clock Holland dares no longer wait, and 
 she goes to Miladi, who has, as was to be expected, 
 an attack of the nerves.'* 
 
 "Of the heart," supplemented Augusta with a 
 sob. 
 
 "Of the heart." Mme. Minart accepted the 
 correction without a change of expression. "And 
 Holland is obliged to call for assistance. I go, and 
 Roper, and others. There is a great confusion. 
 When Roper goes upstairs to her young lady- 
 she finds that she has already risen and left her 
 room. She looks for her downstairs in the room 
 where we breakfast, and finds her not, and some- 
 one says she is with Miladi. Later we find that 
 she is not with Miladi, and that Miladi has not 
 seen her. We search here and there ; no one has 
 seen her, no one has told her the news. That is 
 all," said Mme. Minart. 
 
 "What did you do?" 
 
 "What could we do," said Augusta, weeping, 
 "but wait for her to come back, or let us know 
 where she had gone? I made up my mind she 
 had heard the news somehow and raced off to you 
 — it would be just like her, so headstrong — and 
 without a word to anybody. It never occurred 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 245 
 
 to me to telegraph and ask you. I waited to hear 
 from you. And then it turned out that nobody- 
 could have told her, since nobody had seen her, 
 so I grew frightened and telegraphed to you. It 
 was Pilkington who made me wire a second time, 
 for he had wired privately himself meantime to 
 the station-master at Ilverton and learnt that 
 she had not arrived there." As she spoke the 
 butler brought a telegram into the room, and 
 waited, breathless with anxiety, while Cathe- 
 rine tore it open, heedless to whom it might be 
 addressed. 
 
 It was from Miss Dulcinea. 
 
 *'Philippa has not come home. Are we to 
 expect her? Cannot understand your wire." 
 
 "I took the liberty of telegraphing myself to 
 Mrs. Jones at the Abbey," said Pilkington in 
 subdued tones to Catherine. "Miss Philippa has 
 not arrived there, my lady. I put it very guarded, 
 not to rouse any talk like. I think, my lady, no 
 more time ought to be lost, if you'll excuse me." 
 
 "Of course no more time ought to be lost," 
 said Catherine, trembling. "Where is Colonel 
 Moore? Have you sent to him, or to Mr. Chilcott? 
 And Lady Sarah?" 
 
 "I sent round to her ladyship's house the 
 first thing this morning. Miss Philippa has not 
 been to Curzon Street, my lady. And Colonel 
 Moore and Squire Chilcott is out of town, just 
 left to spend the week-end at Rait." 
 
246 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 "Yes, yes! Colonel Moore said last night that 
 they were going — and Grace Trumoin too. So 
 like Blanche, luring all my friends away from me ! '* 
 sobbed Augusta. 
 
 *' Saturday's a awkward day for everything, 
 my lady," said Pilkington, "but I don't think 
 we ought to lose a moment, now you've come, 
 in going to Scotland Yard. They'll telegraph 
 her description all down the line to Devonshire 
 and all over the coimtry. It's the best thing 
 we can do." 
 
 "Yes, yes, we can do that. It is something," 
 said Catherine, "and I will telegraph to Rait; 
 they will come back when they hear. Come at 
 once, Pilkington." 
 
 "Catherine, you must rest — you must eat 
 something, or you will be ill yourself," cried 
 Augusta. "/ am as ill as I can be. I feel as if I 
 should go out of my mind with all this on the 
 top of what has happened." 
 
 *"Do you think I shall ever rest again, day 
 or night," said Catherine fiercely, "until I know 
 my child is safe? Come, Pilkington, we will take 
 Roper with us, and I can question her as we go." 
 And she went away without another word or 
 look to spare for the weeping new-made widow. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 **What am I to do? I determined I would come 
 and ask you — for Catherine will not pay the 
 least heed to what I say. I do not think she even 
 hears me. She never went to bed at all last 
 night. She will be out of her mind if this goes on.'* 
 
 *'And no wonder," said Lady Sarah grimly. 
 
 "Of course I'm not fit to come and see you. 
 No one could expect it of me," sobbed Augusta. 
 "It's not decent that I should come even here, 
 but at your age I did not feel justified in asking 
 you to come to me. Of course, if this — this 
 extraordinary complication had not happened, I 
 should have gone down at once — at once to the 
 Abbey, able or not able, as every one would have 
 expected of me. As it is I am stunned, simply 
 stunned, as any one would be (and every one 
 knows what we were to each other). But here 
 am I, a widow only a day old, and nobody think- 
 ing about me or my feeling at all. Mr. Ash writing 
 for instructions, when I don't know what ought 
 to be done under the circumstances — ^and if Phi- 
 lippa doesn't appear at — at the — oh, how can I 
 say the word?'* faltered Augusta, with a fresh 
 
 247 
 
248 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 burst of tears — "what will people say? Oh, it is 
 dreadful to have no one — no one to take the 
 responsibility off my hands!" 
 
 **Mr. Ash can settle all details about the fune- 
 ral," said Lady Sarah, without faltering at all. 
 
 There were no traces of tears about her shrunken 
 yet handsome old face, but the waxen purity of 
 her complexion was paler, and there was a curious 
 ashen greyness about her sunken mouth and 
 fine-cut nostrils that told of the shock she had 
 suffered. Grief is often softened mysteriously 
 to the very old, who have outlived the loss of 
 many loved ones and have grown almost accus- 
 tomed to the chill visitations of Death stealing 
 about them on all sides, and leaving them at 
 last alone in a world full of strangers and 
 memories. 
 
 Lady Sarah's sardonic humour had not deserted 
 her; she showed little more sympathy than usual 
 with her granddaughter-in-law, and would have 
 died rather than relax her own self-control in 
 Augusta's presence. 
 
 "Mr. Ash is quite a young man; he must have 
 some one to direct him. I couldn't think of leav- 
 ing it to him. And here is George Chilcott, poor 
 Cecil's oldest friend and neighbour, shocked 
 as he is — as he must be — yet he can give his 
 attention to nothing but this dreadful business 
 of Philippa; and Colonel Moore is the same. 
 They came down with Blanche and Bob from 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 249 
 
 Rait this morning. And the poHce in and out 
 of the house; even I am being questioned and 
 cross-examined as though I were a convict. Cath- 
 erine seems to suspect every one in turn of hav- 
 ing made away with her daughter, especially Mme. 
 Minart." 
 
 "Pray, who is Mme. Minart?'* 
 
 *'My companion, who " 
 
 *'Dear me! And since when have you found it 
 necessary to start a companion?" said Lady 
 Sarah, raising her eyebrows in affected surprise. 
 
 **0h, grandmamma! you must remember I told 
 you a fortnight ago she was coming ; and here she 
 was so attached to Philippa, poor thing, following 
 her about from morning till night, and never 
 letting her out of her sight. No one can say I 
 was not careful of Philippa. I was afraid of 
 leaving her even with her own maid.'* 
 
 * ' It appears to me that she was rather Philippa's 
 companion than yours." 
 
 *'In a sense she was; and that is what makes 
 it so ridiculous to suspect her. She is absolutely 
 devoted to Philippa, and how could she have 
 hidden her away against her will? The thing is 
 absurd. The fact is Catherine has spoilt her 
 daughter so, that Philippa has just taken it into 
 her head to be off no one knows where, and 
 then they all come down upon me. One would 
 think they would have respected my first day of 
 widowhood." 
 
250 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 "You are responsible for Philippa," said Lady 
 Sarah in cutting tones. "She cannot have van- 
 ished into thin air. She must have gone some- 
 where out of your house, and they must look for 
 the clue of her disappearance there." 
 
 "But I know no more than the babe unborn 
 where she went," wailed Augusta. "All I can 
 say is that she enjoyed herself at the dance, and 
 young Kentisbury paid her a great deal of atten- 
 tion. It was my suggestion to send roimd to 
 their house and tell them in confidence." 
 
 "He is the last person who ought to have heard 
 anything about it," said Lady Sarah sharply. 
 "It may be nothing but a childish freak. She 
 will probably turn up to-morrow, and then he 
 need never have known. A girl's reputation 
 is a brittle thing; you should have had more 
 sense." 
 
 Poor Augusta looked helplessly at her grand- 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 "What is the use of trying to hush it up when 
 it is sure to get into the papers ? " she said tearfully. 
 "And Charlie is almost frantic. He says he will 
 never rest day or night till he has found her. 
 The Scotland Yard people thought it must be an 
 elopement at first; but now they understand 
 who she is and all about her, they think it is more 
 likely a blackmailing business, and that she has 
 been abducted against her will. But who could 
 have abducted a strong powerful girl like Philippa 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 251 
 
 against her will? The whole thing is a complete 
 mystery." 
 
 "Why has Catherine not been here?" said 
 Lady Sarah. "Send her to me." 
 
 "She was out all night with Roper and Pilking- 
 ton. He is quite knocked up to-day. But Cather- 
 ine is as strong as a horse; she always was," 
 said Augusta resentfully. "And all to-day she 
 has been with this Detective Mills, questioning 
 and cross-questioning every servant in my house, 
 as I tell you; and bullying me about Mme. 
 Minart's references, and Philippa's fondness for 
 her, and her being left alone with her every even- 
 ing, and taking meals with her. One would 
 think the girl had been utterly neglected. But 
 I have told Catherine once for all she is welcome 
 to take charge of my house and every one in it 
 — indeed she has practically done so without 
 making any bones about it. But, Philippa or no 
 Philippa, I go down to Welwysbere to-morrow, 
 and would to-day only the Sunday trains are so 
 impossible; and I came to tell you, so that 
 every one should know I have your approval. 
 I suppose you can't disapprove of my wishing to 
 go to — to my poor — oh dear, oh dear!" 
 
 "The sooner you go the better," said Lady 
 Sarah. 
 
 "I knew you would think so," said Augusta, 
 and she rose with some alacrity and tottered to 
 Lady Sarah's side to take her leave. 
 
252 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 "Let me know the instant you get news.** 
 
 **I will — I will. I'll come round myself before 
 I start to-morrow to bid you good-bye — if I live,'* 
 sobbed Augusta piously. 
 
 "I shall not expect you otherwise,** said Lady 
 Sarah, and she proffered a cold cheek to Augusta's 
 tearful kiss. 
 
 "How profane grandmamma is even at a time 
 like this!'* murmured poor Lady Adelstane as she 
 groped her way down the narrow staircase of the 
 little house in Curzon Street. 
 
 "Augusta's grief seems to have settled in her 
 legs," said Lady Sarah, viewing in a dispassionate 
 manner from the drawing-room window Augusta's 
 departure and the tender respect with which 
 she was assisted into the carriage by her colossal 
 footman. "She appears unable to walk without 
 help.'* 
 
 "I wish you would come and lie down and 
 rest yourself, my lady," said Tailer very anxiously ; 
 for, though she was pretty well accustomed to 
 Lady Sarah's ways, yet she thought her com- 
 posure under the double catastrophe unnatural. 
 "Let me bring you some tea. A visit like that 
 is enough to upset your ladyship's heart, and a 
 cup of tea would do you good, my lady." 
 
 "A cup of tea is all you would require to console 
 you for my demise, Tailer, I am well aware," said 
 Lady Sarah sardonically. "And I may take 
 this opportunity of warning you that the less 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 253 
 
 you say about me over it the better. For if 
 I hear you telling people that you were my con- 
 fidential friend, or any nonsense of that kind, 
 you may depend upon it I shall haunt you in the 
 most unpleasant manner." 
 
 **0h, my lady, what dreadful things you do 
 say! You make my blood run cold," said Tailer, 
 horrified, and perhaps also a little conscience- 
 stricken. 
 
 ** Leave the door open and the lamp burning 
 all night in the cottage, and do not stir from the 
 house for a moment. Oh, if she should come 
 home and find nobody waiting to welcome her!" 
 wrote Catherine in a hurried tremulous scrawl 
 which poor Miss Dulcinea, blind with tears, could 
 hardly read. ** There has been a clue. They 
 have found a policeman who saw a tall girl in a 
 blue dress and black hat walking in Belgrave 
 Square at about nine o'clock on Saturday morning. 
 He remembers her because he thought of warning 
 her not to carry her purse so openly in her hand ; 
 but, seeing she looked very strong and determined 
 and well able to take care of herself, he said 
 nothing after all. There is no doubt it was my 
 darling, for her plain blue serge dress and her 
 black hat are missing from her wardrobe. She 
 carried no bag nor parcel, he is quite certain 
 of that; so, wherever she went, there could have 
 been nothing premeditated. She did not look 
 
254 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 agitated nor upset in the least, so she cannot 
 have heard the dreadful news of poor Cecil's 
 death. He says he is certain he would have 
 observed anything unusual about her, because 
 he took particular notice of her being such a 
 fine healthy upright young lady; but though she 
 passed close to him he had nothing to say of her 
 beauty, nor did he remember the colour of her 
 hair. Where she was going we cannot tell. Oh, 
 dear Atmt Dulcinea, you can do nothing but 
 pray for her and watch for her, and as you love 
 me, never leave the cottage day or night lest 
 she should come." 
 
 ** David, that woman knows.** 
 
 ** What woman?" 
 
 *'Mme. Minart." 
 
 **What makes you think so?" 
 
 *'That is just it. I have no reason that I can 
 ask you or George or any one else to listen to," 
 said Catherine almost wildly. *'You can call it 
 instinct if you like — a woman's instinct — or a 
 mother's. But directly she touched me, I knew, 
 when she put me into the chair by the window 
 last night and I felt her strong hands and saw 
 her dark clever face bending over me, and looking 
 sorry — sorry for me — clever people can't help 
 being sorry for their victims, you know; it is only 
 fools who don't pity and who think of nothing 
 but themselves. It flashed across me then that 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 255 
 
 she knew where Philippa was, and that it was her 
 doing. But how can I expect you or George to 
 believe me when I have no better reason to give 
 you than that? I told the inspector or detective 
 or whoever he is, Mr. Mills, directly he came." 
 
 *'Whatdidhesay?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Instinct is sometimes a surer guide than 
 reason," said David soothingly. 
 
 **Look here, Catherine," said George bluntly 
 and kindly, ** don't go worrying about any one's 
 opinion of the strength of your reasoning; tell us 
 exactly what you think. No one else knows her 
 so well. And don't stand while you're talking. 
 You look like a washed-out rag; knocking your- 
 self up won't do any good." 
 
 Catherine took the chair he pushed forward, 
 and seated herself in mechanical obedience, but 
 she never moved her bright, feverish eyes from 
 David's face. It was in his wit she sought for 
 help; she trusted George's kindness, but had no 
 belief in his intelligence. 
 
 *'I know this," she said solemnly, "that as for 
 an elopement, as these men suggest — oh, what 
 do they not suggest?" — said Catherine almost 
 writhing, *'a — a clandestine love affair or any- 
 thing of that kind — it is not in Phil's nature. She 
 would never be persuaded — nobody could persuade 
 her to do a thing she would know to be wrong or 
 improper. In some ways she is the very soul of con- 
 
256 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 scientiousness — of — of conventionality. But this 
 woman, who had so much influence over her " 
 
 "Mme. Minart had influence over Philippa? She 
 had scarcely known her a fortnight," said David 
 quickly. 
 
 "When one is young — a fortnight — a week — a 
 day — is sometimes an age," said Catherine; 
 **I have known a girl give her very heart — let 
 her whole life be changed — in a shorter time than 
 that." The colour of her white face never varied, 
 and she spoke with straightforward simplicity, 
 but both men knew that she was thinking of 
 herself. *'From the letters she wrote me I know 
 that Mme. Minart obtained an influence over her 
 directly after she came. Philippa was too guileless 
 to conceal it, even if she had wished. She had 
 formed a friendship for Augusta, but I read be- 
 tween the lines of her dear letters that Augusta 
 had disillusioned her, as was inevitable, and 
 that Mme. Minart had consoled her. Poor child ! 
 At her age one must idealise some one." 
 
 ''What do you think Mme. Minart has done?" 
 
 *'I believe she has inspired some one to decoy 
 my Phil away. The child would be easily imposed 
 upon, for she would have no suspicions of any one. 
 And it must be for money; it could not be for 
 anything else. If it were not for the certainty 
 I feel of this I should go mad," said Catherine 
 with dry eyes and calm voice. *'But it could not 
 be to any one's interest to harm my darling, even 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 257 
 
 if a woman whom Philippa in her innocence loved 
 and believed in could have the heart to betray 
 her to — anything bad. It could not. She is being 
 hidden away in the hopes of a reward.'* 
 
 ''It seems the most probable explanation," 
 said David. 
 
 "Can't the woman be arrested on suspicion?" 
 said George angrily. 
 
 '*Mr. Mills says she has given them no excuse 
 whatever for arresting her." 
 
 ''She is a stranger and a foreigner. Isn't that 
 excuse enough?" growled George. 
 
 Catherine smiled wearily. 
 
 *'He also thinks in our own interests it is better 
 not. She gave them every information they 
 asked concerning her last interview with Philippa, 
 and never faltered nor contradicted herself. And 
 she said that as she considered herself in charge 
 of Philippa she courted the fullest inquiry; and 
 gave them the addresses of her last employers, 
 and of her friend at the registry office, and begged 
 them to search her room or her papers or do any- 
 thing they chose. He warned her that she would 
 be arrested if she made the slightest attempt 
 to leave the house." 
 
 "Just to put her on her guard, I suppose," 
 said George. 
 
 "Perhaps he only said it to frighten her. He 
 is having her watched." 
 
 "Suppose we ask to see her," said George. 
 
 17 
 
258 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 **It might be the simplest plan, since she knows 
 she is suspected. We could threaten her with the 
 law, and give her a chance of escaping punish- 
 ment by an immediate confession." 
 
 Catherine shook her head. 
 
 *'It will be of no use." 
 
 *'How do you know that?" said David quickly. 
 
 *' Because I went on my knees to her this 
 morning," said Catherine, in the same passionless 
 even tones. ' ' If tears would have melted a stone 
 they would have melted her heart; but they did 
 not. I went into her room where she lay asleep 
 — in the dawn — and I woke her, and I prayed 
 her to tell me, and she answered that I was mad 
 with grief, and pretended to be full of concern 
 and pity ; but it was no longer the real pity that 
 I saw in her face that first night. She has hard- 
 ened her heart." 
 
 David looked at Catherine pitifully. Her 
 gentle face was pinched and colourless, grown 
 old in a single night with misery; her hazel eyes 
 were unnaturally large, and though her manner 
 was calm, it was only by an intense effort of self- 
 control that that calm was sustained. 
 
 Under his look of compassion her lip quivered 
 suddenly. 
 
 "Help me to find her," she said, and put a soft, 
 cold hand into his strong fingers. 
 
 "I'm going to," he said briefly. "Now you've 
 given me full authority to act for you. But I 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 259 
 
 like my information first-hand. I should like to 
 see Mme. Minart myself." 
 
 *'Yes." 
 
 "Mr. Mills has given me the facts as he has 
 collected them, let me collect my own.'* 
 
 "Very well, send for whom you choose. If I 
 go out meanwhile," said Catherine, "will you 
 not leave the house till I return?" 
 
 "I will not." 
 
 "Then I will go and see if Lady Sarah knows 
 anything. She is very clever," said Catherine, 
 "but I shall be very quickly back." 
 
 A poHte message was sent to Mme. Minart, 
 and she presently came very quietly into the 
 room, bowed to both gentlemen, and accepted 
 the chair that David offered. 
 
 "Am I again to be cross-examined?" she said 
 with a faint smile. 
 
 "If you please," said David very courteously, 
 "but of course you will understand that we have 
 no authority whatever to ask you questions. 
 I am venturing to assume," he looked keenly at 
 her, "that you are as anxious as we are ourselves 
 that this matter should be cleared up, and the 
 young lady found. We are sure you wish her no 
 harm." 
 
 "You do me justice, and you are the first to do 
 so," said Mme. Minart in a voice of emotion, and 
 her dark, liquid eyes met his gaze. "Will you be- 
 lieve me, Monsieur le Colonel, if I tell you that 
 
260 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 I love this child with all my heart, though I have 
 known her so short a time; that I have never 
 had any pupil to show me so much love, so much 
 candour, so much generosity?" 
 
 "Indeed I believe you," said David warmly, 
 for the ring of sincerity in her beautiful voice 
 was unmistakable. He held out his hand to her. 
 
 **I thank you. Monsieur. You are not then 
 of those who would doubt me, like these stu- 
 pid pohce, only because I am a stranger and a 
 foreigner?" 
 
 George pulled his moustache and knew not 
 where to look. 
 
 "Hang it all," he thought uneasily, "one would 
 suppose she had been Hstening." 
 
 But Mme. Minart was not of those who need 
 to listen. A glance at the rubicund good-natured 
 countenance of George, now darkened by his 
 openly suspicious and hostile expression, enabled 
 her to divine his sentiments. 
 
 She instantly ignored him, and appealed only to 
 David's finer intelligence and quicker sympathies. 
 
 "I have written down," she said simply, "the 
 exact facts — the hours — ^all I can remember of 
 my conversation with Philippa — to help the police. 
 Here it is." 
 
 She handed some notes across the table, in- 
 scribed in a minute exquisite French hand. 
 
 He read them carefully. "Thank you. Was 
 Phihppa in good spirits?" 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 261 
 
 "More than good spirits — excited, delighted 
 with the triumph of her debut.'* 
 
 **You went into her room?'* 
 
 "As you will see written. I assisted her to 
 bed. She said she was too sleepy to plait her hair 
 as usual. I promised that she should not be 
 called until ten o'clock unless she rang." 
 
 "Did she not ring on Saturday morning?" 
 
 "The servants say not." 
 
 "What was the exact hour that her absence 
 was discovered?" 
 
 "Between nine- thirty and ten Roper knocked 
 at her door and found her room empty." 
 
 "But the policeman saw her out of doors soon 
 after nine. So she must have left her room before 
 nine." 
 
 "Obviously." 
 
 "Did no one see her go downstairs?*' 
 
 "They say not.** [ 
 
 "You say that Lady Adelstane was, very 
 naturally, overcome by the news which was taken 
 to her at nine o'clock?" 
 
 "Lady Adelstane had an attack," said Mme. 
 Minart, in brief, expressive tones; "to you I 
 speak frankly — she had hysterics. The house 
 was roused." 
 
 "Who went to her?" 
 
 "Her maid was with her, and Mrs. Joliffe the 
 housekeeper, but she was of no use — ^weeping 
 and crying. Holland sent for Roper; she would 
 
262 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 not send for me, because she was jealous, but I 
 went. The head-housemaid answered the bell, 
 and the doctor w^as sent for." 
 
 •'Who went for the doctor?" 
 
 **No one went — the butler telephoned." 
 
 **Who went down to tell the butler?" 
 
 * 'The housemaid." 
 
 "What was Roper doing?" 
 
 Mme. Minart shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Rubbing Miladi's hands, holding the salts 
 to her nose; bathing her head. The two maids 
 held together. They would not let me help. I 
 made suggestions and opened the windows." 
 
 "Who remained in the room when the doctor 
 came?" 
 
 * ' Holland and Roper. I remained in the dress- 
 ing-room with Mrs. Joliffe." 
 
 "That was at ten o'clock?" 
 
 "He was gone before ten o'clock." 
 
 "And then Roper went upstairs to her young 
 lady?" 
 
 "She went downstairs first to fetch her young 
 lady's cup of tea, and then up to her room." 
 
 "Did you not think it strange Philippa should 
 hear none of this commotion?" 
 
 "No; Philippa's room is on the floor above, 
 and not over or anywhere near Miladi's room. 
 It is shut off by a baize door from the front part 
 of the house.'* 
 
 "Where is your room?" 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 263 
 
 "Down the same passage.** 
 
 "AndRoper*s?'* 
 
 ** Further down the same passage.** 
 
 **When Roper found Philippa's room empty 
 what did she do?'* 
 
 **She went to the breakfast-room, and, finding 
 no one there, supposed Philippa had gone to 
 Miladi while she was fetching the tea. She waited 
 an hour outside Miladi's room till Holland came 
 out, not daring to knock because the doctor had 
 given a composing draught. Then she learnt that 
 Philippa had not been near Miladi and then she 
 came to me. I was having my breakfast in the 
 morning-room as usual.** 
 
 **Had you not been anxious to know how 
 Philippa would take the news of her cousin's 
 death?'* 
 
 "I had promised to leave her old nurse to tell 
 her, and withdrawn myself from the affair. I 
 thought she would come to me. When it became 
 evident she was not in the house, we thought 
 she had heard the news and gone out to telegraph 
 to her mother. At twelve Miladi sent for her, 
 and we were obliged to say she could not be 
 found. Miladi thought she had heard the news 
 and gone home, and was very angry. But Pilking- 
 ton sent a telegram to the station-master at Ilver- 
 ton to know if Philippa had arrived, and the reply 
 came that she had not. Miladi grew frightened 
 and telegraphed to Lady Adelstane to come.'* 
 
264 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 ''Thank you very much. And now tell us," 
 said David very simply, "what do you think?" 
 
 **I?" said Mme. Minart, and a sudden colour 
 flushed her olive cheeks. 
 
 *'I believe you could help us better than any 
 one, for you have been Philippa's friend and con- 
 fidante during these past days that she has been 
 away from her mother's care. If there was any- 
 thing on her mind, you would know it." 
 
 **Was she in any scrape?" said George bluntly. 
 
 Mme. Minart scarcely deigned to glance at him. 
 
 ** Certainly not," she said in disdain. 
 
 **Was she — " David hesitated and coloured 
 all over his bronzed face, the more deeply because 
 he was aware that Mme. Minart was observing 
 him. "Had you any reason to think that she 
 was — or fancied herself — in love?" 
 
 "Ah, Monsieur," said Mme. Minart gently, 
 would you have me betray a young girl's secret 
 if that was so?" 
 
 "Nonsense, she's scarcely more than a child, 
 and in any case her secret would be safe enough 
 with us," said George. "Then there is something 
 of that kind?" 
 
 "She has not told me so," said Mme. Minart 
 coldly. 
 
 David came to her side, and took her hand 
 in his impulsive fashion. 
 
 "Madame,'* he said, "we are asking you to 
 trust us. This child is very dear to both, for her 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 265 
 
 own sake, and her mother's. Do not, out of 
 mistaken kindness, endeavour to keep back 
 anything." 
 
 "That is the only motive you would attribute 
 to me. Monsieur?" said Mme. Minart emotionally. 
 
 "I would not insult you — after the appeal you 
 have made to us, your voluntary declaration of 
 your affection for her — by supposing that any 
 other motive save kindness to her, or to us, 
 would influence you to keep back information 
 which might help us to find her," he said warmly. 
 
 Mme. Minart looked up into the kind, frank, 
 manly face with a very agitated smile, and a 
 tear in her dark eyes. 
 
 **Ah, Monsieur," she said, "you would never 
 appeal in vain, believe me, to a woman. It is true 
 that the child is in love; but it is also true that 
 she has not told me so, for a very simple reason." 
 
 "And that is " 
 
 "That she does not know it herself." 
 
 "Then it is mere conjecture on your part?" 
 said George roughly. 
 
 "If you like to put it in that way, yes. Mon- 
 sieur," she retorted. "And for that reason I do 
 not choose to reveal the name of him to whom 
 I believe this young girl, in all innocence, has 
 given her heart." 
 
 "Then I don't see the use of your having told 
 us the fact," said George sulkily. 
 
 "It is of no use, for it can have nothing to do 
 
266 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 with her disappearance, since he also is of those 
 who search," she said patiently. *'M. le Colonel, 
 however, asked me the question.'* 
 
 *'And I thank you for answering it," said 
 David. ''But, as Mr. Chilcott says, it is not 
 material if it has nothing to do with her disap- 
 pearance, and you think it has not?" 
 
 *'I am sure it has not." 
 
 **Then what do you think?" he asked, fixing 
 his eyes entreatingly on her face. 
 
 **Ah, mon Dieu, Monsieur," said Mme Minart 
 in agitated tones, **yo^ torture me when you 
 question me thus. Do you think I would not help 
 you if I could?" Her voice was low, almost 
 tender, her dark eyes eloquent with reproach. 
 ** Myself, I have the conviction, like Miladi,that 
 she will return safe and sound. She is full of 
 romance. Who can tell where she may have been 
 pleased to go? Comfort yourself to think she is 
 strong and healthy, and that she had a purse full of 
 money, and is well able to take care of herself." 
 
 *'No girl of that age can take care of herself," 
 said George sternly. 
 
 This was the end of their questioning of Mme. 
 Minart, and they felt they had gained nothing 
 from the interview, which had the effect, however, 
 of dispersing David's suspicions of the compan- 
 ion; and the more especially when the tearful 
 Roper, though evidently detesting her, corrobo- 
 rated her story in every detail. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 267 
 
 "She knows nothing," said David to George. 
 
 "I am not so sure," said Georg3. 
 
 **My dear fellow, you mistrust her, as she says, 
 merely because she is a stranger and a foreigner." 
 
 "Perhaps. Anyway, I don't believe a word 
 she says," he replied very bluntly. 
 
 "You think Catherine's suspicions are justified 
 then?" 
 
 "I don't know what to think. The only sure 
 thing is that Philippa has disappeared, and it's 
 either that she's gone off for a lark, which doesn't 
 seem the least like her, or that she's been decoyed 
 away for blackmailing purposes by some one 
 who had heard of poor Adelstane's death and 
 knew she was his heiress." 
 
 "Aye, that's just it," interposed David, "that 
 practically exonerates Mme. Minart. How in 
 the name of fortune could she have made up a 
 plot to get Philippa decoyed away, which would 
 necessarily mean employing an accomplice, within 
 a couple of hours of the first possible moment 
 she could have learnt of poor Adelstane's fate?" 
 
 George shook his head. 
 
 "Perhaps we are all wrong in mixing up this 
 sad event with Philippa's disappearance. She 
 may simply have gone out to buy something; 
 lost her way and strayed into some unfrequented 
 street — God knows what may have happened 
 to her in that case." 
 
 "Do not put that into Catherine's head," said 
 
268 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 David hastily. "No doubt that is what the 
 pohce fear. Of course there is just the chance, 
 
 though " 
 
 •'Well " 
 
 "Mme. Minart believes her to be in love; of 
 course it's with this young ass, Kentisbury, who 
 made a conspicuous fool of himself at the Lundys* 
 dance, following her about," said David rather 
 savagely. "She may have taken fright — at him, 
 or herself, or something — girls are very fanciful, 
 you know, and be hiding herself. It doesn't 
 sound probable, but it's possible." 
 
 "It's not at all like Phihppa. She is a thor- 
 oughly healthy, sensible girl, not a mysterious 
 idiot," said George stoutly. "And I don't believe 
 Mme. Minart knows her half so well as she pre- 
 tends to. Phil is a bit spoilt and obstinate, but 
 she's a well-bred 'un, not the least likely to give 
 herself away if she was in love a dozen times 
 over, with Kentisbury or any other young fool." 
 
 "I had almost rather it was with any other 
 young fool; the fellow looks such a confoimded 
 noodle," said David gloomily. 
 
 Catherine knelt by Lady Sarah's chair, and 
 hid her face upon the flowered lilac satin sleeves 
 of Lady Sarah's gown. 
 
 For the first time since the blow had fallen 
 she found a moment's comfort in human sym- 
 pathy. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 269 
 
 **My poor child — ^my darling Catherine,** mur- 
 mured the old woman in a broken voice hardly 
 recognisable as her own; and the rare painful 
 tears of age dropped slowly, one by one, on to the 
 bent head, where threads of silver shone among 
 the soft brown hair. 
 
 *'And it is I who should be comforting you — 
 who have lost your — your last child," Catherine 
 sobbed. "I feel so disloyal, so heartless, when I 
 think of him; and yet — this other trouble has 
 swallowed up everything.'* 
 
 **It is Philippa who is my last child now,** 
 said Lady Sarah. "Do not give way, my darling. 
 It is the living of whom we must think, not the 
 dead. His hopes, like ours, were bound up in 
 her.'* 
 
 The hand which rested on Catherine*s soft 
 hair trembled slightly. She thought remorse- 
 fully that it was she who had advised Catherine 
 to part with her child; and that Catherine had 
 not uttered a single reproach, nor reminded her 
 of the fact which Lady Sarah could not forget. 
 
 **You know that Augusta has been here? She 
 is going to the Abbey with you to-morrow,'* she 
 says. 
 
 **But I am not going to stay,'* said Catherine. 
 **I shall get there in time for — for the inquest. 
 But directly that is over — oh, how dreadful, how 
 dreadful it all is ! — David says I shall be able 
 to come straight back. I need not stay the night, 
 
270 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 I could not. And besides — the Raits are going to 
 stay with her. She says she does not want them, 
 but it is better they should go, and Grace Trumoin 
 will go too. The Raits have been very kind. 
 They have placed a motor at David's disposal. 
 They say we shall have more clues by the time 
 I return, to follow up." 
 
 *' Catherine, save your strength for to-morrow, 
 and rest to-night." 
 
 "How can I rest, and my darling perhaps — " 
 she gave a little cry and shudder. *'I dare not 
 think. I must not stay with you even now. But 
 I felt you had been neglected, and I hoped you 
 might have some idea — some suggestion." She 
 uttered a little mirthless laugh that went to 
 Lady Sarah's heart. "But perhaps you are too 
 wise to offer suggestions that almost drive one 
 mad with their unlikelihood. The detective, 
 Mr. Mills, has been questioning and questioning 
 till I am almost mad. And then one must go 
 through it all again with somebody else. He 
 asked me if she had been happy at home. My 
 little Phil, my baby, for w^hom I would lay down 
 my life; was she happy with me?" She looked 
 calmly and with inexpressible sadness at Lady 
 Sarah. "And the dreadful part is this — that 
 I could not honestly say yes," said Catherine. 
 
 "Hush, my darling, hush! you little foolish 
 creature," said Lady Sarah, to whom Catherine, 
 even yet seemed almost a child herself, "She 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 271 
 
 was as happy as the day is long. She had 
 everything to make her happy." 
 
 "She did not think so," said Catherine with a 
 wan smile. ''That is the sad, funny thing, you 
 know. It wasn't our love, nor our care and 
 petting she wanted, but something new, some- 
 thing different." 
 
 ''Girls are full of fancies and ingratitude, and 
 senselessness," said Lady Sarah angrily. "You 
 are a fool, my love, to dwell upon such nonsense." 
 
 "Girls are full of fancies — yes, that is what 
 Mr. Mills said," said Catherine wearily, and she 
 leaned her head on her hand, and thought of the 
 questions she had been asked, and which she had 
 resented, in the midst of her anxiety to afford 
 every possible help, every imaginable clue, to 
 the questioner. 
 
 "Happy? How can I say? IVe thought of 
 nothing but her happiness from morning till 
 night. What has that to do with her disappear- 
 ance? She has been decoyed away," she had 
 said. 
 
 "Madam, in our experience it has a good deal 
 to do with girls of that age leaving their homes," 
 the inspector had answered bluntly. "At fifteen 
 or sixteen they often get, if you'll excuse me, 
 ma'am, discontented with everything, no matter 
 what's done for them; fancying no one under- 
 stands them, or working themselves up so that 
 you'd almost begin to believe they were ill- 
 
272 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 treated, though you know to the contrary.'* 
 Then he had been touched by Catherine's distress 
 and had begged her pardon. *' You'll excuse my 
 plain speaking, ma'am, but I've daughters of my 
 own," he said compassionately. "Dealing with 
 some girls of that age is like treading on eggs. And 
 it stands to reason that a young lady accustomed 
 to indulge every whim " 
 
 **She was not,'* cried Catherine. 
 
 But the inspector had heard a very different 
 story from Augusta, who, being in an excessively 
 injured frame of mind, and feeling that, at least, 
 she could not be held responsible for the dispo- 
 sition of Catherine's daughter, had vented her 
 indignation against Philippa by roundly declaring 
 her to be the most ungrateful, pig-headed, wilful, 
 sullen-tempered girl in the world, who cared for 
 nothing but having her own way, and who thought 
 of nobody but herself from morning till night. 
 
 But Catherine was fortunately all unaware of 
 the character which Augusta had drawn of her 
 young cousin and guest. 
 
 Lady Sarah shook her head sadly. 
 
 **It is all a mystery to me," she said. **I saw 
 next to nothing of Philippa — ^Augusta took care 
 of that." 
 
 **The description of my darling will be in 
 every newspaper in England to-morrow," said 
 Catherine. "I wrote it for them. They said 
 there was no hope of avoiding publicity, and 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 273 
 
 that indeed publicity gives us the best chance of 
 finding her quickly.'* 
 
 She started nervously to her feet. 
 
 **I must go. I feel every moment something 
 may be happening, and I not there to help." 
 
 ''Don't forget me," said Lady Sarah patheti- 
 cally. ** Spare me a few moments when you 
 can. I am very old and helpless and lonely, 
 Catherine, sitting here by myself." 
 
 Even in the midst of her heart-sickening 
 anxiety Catherine could not but realise how 
 shaken the old woman's nerves must be, before 
 Lady Sarah — stem, ironical, and self-controlled 
 through all her past sorrows — could make such 
 an appeal. 
 
 i8 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 **I MUST write to Catherine at once,** said Mrs. 
 Chilcott, who was ever ready to condole with 
 her relatives on their misfortunes, though she 
 was invariably dumb concerning their successes. 
 
 She mistook the eagerness with which she 
 proceeded to indite a letter to Catherine for the 
 haste of charity; and, though it was impossible 
 not to be shocked at the double disaster which 
 had befallen the house of Adelstane, yet Mrs. 
 Chilcott — who had always been jealous of the 
 promotion by marriage into that house of her 
 humble niece Catherine — ^was not destitute of 
 that secret sense of triumph in another's trouble 
 which is perhaps among the most evil of all sen- 
 sations to which poor human nature is prone. 
 
 She was, besides, just sufficiently pious to feel 
 convinced that other people's trials were always 
 sent for the best by a discerning Providence 
 
 ** What could Catherine expect, letting a country 
 hoyden go alone to that fast worldly woman's 
 house, with no one to look after her?" she said to 
 her daughter. 
 
 *' There was Roper," said Clara, whose eyes 
 274 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 275 
 
 were swollen with honest grief for the untimely 
 death of Sir Cecil Adelstane, and for the unac- 
 countable disappearance of her cousin Philippa. 
 
 "Roper, a half-witted drudge whom Catherine 
 chose to pick out of my own laundry for her 
 daughter's nurse," said Mrs. Chilcott sarcastically. 
 
 "She is a very honest, good steady woman, 
 mamma.'* 
 
 "I am perfectly aware what Roper is Hke," 
 said Mrs. Chilcott sharply, "and a more unsuit- 
 able, ignorant maid for Philippa could not have 
 been found." 
 
 "Where do you think poor Philippa can be?" 
 said Clara in awe-struck tones. 
 
 "Who can tell? Either she has eloped with a 
 footman or a chauffeur — going about in Lord 
 Kentisbury's motor, indeed, at her age! — or else, 
 roaming alone in the streets of London before 
 breakfast, as it appears she was permitted to do 
 she has been robbed and murdered." 
 
 "Oh, mamma!" screamed Clara, and she lost 
 every vestige of colour. "Do not say so — poor 
 little Philippa, and oh, poor — poor Catherine!" 
 
 A tear rolled down Clara's large face ; for though 
 she was not a very intelligent person she had a 
 heart, and was sincere and even kind in her way. 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Clara. For my part I am not 
 going to pretend to be fond of a girl who was 
 deliberately kept away from her own relations, 
 and taught to look down on them," said Mrs. 
 
276 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 Chilcott angrily. "I am quite as shocked and 
 sorry as you can possibly be; more so, for I am 
 able to realise her fate a great deal better than 
 you can, who know nothing whatever of the 
 wickedness of the world; but I am not going to 
 pretend to be surprised. I always knew that no 
 good could possibly come of the absurd way 
 Catherine was bringing her up. The pride that 
 apes humility indeed! Living in a labourer's 
 cottage when every one knew she must inherit 
 the Abbey. Though it would have been hard to 
 find any one more unsuited for such a position.'* 
 
 "Mamma, if poor Philippa is never found, who 
 will it all go to?" said Clara solemnly. 
 
 "After a certain lapse of time, to a distant 
 cousin," said Mrs. Chilcott, who knew no more 
 of the matter than her daughter, but who would 
 have invented a dozen answers rather than admit 
 ignorance on any conceivable subject. "When 
 one thinks how terribly poor Sir Cecil would have 
 felt all this horrible publicity and scandal, and 
 these dreadful newspaper advertisements, one 
 almost feels his removal from it all like a special 
 Providence." 
 
 Clara, who had not hitherto regarded Sir 
 Cecil's fatal accident in this light, mournfully 
 accepted her mother's view in good faith. 
 
 "It is well, indeed, that he should be spared 
 it all," she said, wiping her eyes. 
 
 "There is one thing I insist on," said Mrs. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 277 
 
 Chilcott, "and that is, that you go at once and 
 fetch Lily home. She was entrusted to Cath- 
 erine, and Catherine has chosen to leave her. 
 1 won't have her left with Aunt Dulcinea, half 
 crazy as she has always been, and totally unsuited 
 to look after herself or any one else. I should 
 hope even George will acknowledge now that 
 Catherine has proved herself sufficiently unfit 
 to have charge of a child." 
 
 Clara was nothing loth to undertake the task 
 of fetching her niece home. She was sincerely 
 attached to Lily, and very sore at her brother's 
 ingratitude for her own praiseworthy efforts to 
 undertake his daughter's education. 
 
 "Of course she is an unusually naughty child," 
 thought poor Clara ; * ' but I make every excuse for 
 her when I recollect what a faulty disposition 
 she must have inherited, as mamma truly says, 
 from poor Delia. Sometimes she behaves like 
 a demon, and George gives one no credit for 
 putting up with it. But I try to remember 
 he is a widower, and make allowance for his 
 weakness." 
 
 She told her mother of her fears that it would 
 not be easy to bring Lily away from Shepherd's 
 Rest against her will; since the child's innate 
 wickedness made it probable that she would 
 not wish to return to her lawful guardians. 
 
 "And it will hurt Aunt Dulcinea's feelings, I 
 know, when I explain to her as I must," said the 
 
278 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 conscientious Clara, "that I do not think her at 
 all a fit person to have charge of Lily." 
 
 "I never mind what I say to people for their 
 good, and why should you?" said Mrs. Chilcott 
 sternly. **A little plain speaking will do Aunt 
 Dulcinea no harm, and she only keeps away from 
 me because she is afraid of getting it." 
 
 On the afternoon following this conversation, 
 Miss Clara ordered the victoria, and drove up to 
 Shepherd's Rest. 
 
 The coachman would have grumbled indig- 
 nantly at any other time, upon receiving the 
 order to take his horses up the steep and narrow 
 lane which led to the cottage; for it was the 
 family custom to leave the carriage in the road 
 below, and climb the hill on foot; but just now 
 local curiosity and sympathy were stimulated to 
 a degree which made every opportunity for ob- 
 taining news of the missing heiress welcome, and 
 he carried out his instructions with alacrity. 
 
 "It is Aunt Clara, I told you so," said Lily; 
 and she turned white, clutching old Miss Dul- 
 cinea's soft hand with frail nervous fingers. "She 
 has come to fetch me." 
 
 "Bless the child, don*t look like that," said 
 Miss Dulcinea, frightened. "I won't let you go. 
 There, my dear, I promise!" 
 
 "Oh, you will, you will," wailed Lily, who had 
 small faith in Miss Dulcinea's strength of mind. 
 
 "I will not," said the old lady shortly. "I 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 279 
 
 should hope I know how to face Clara by this 
 time." 
 
 ''Then say you don't know where I am, and 
 I will hide," said Lily, and she flew like an arrow 
 from a bow, from the house-place where they 
 were sitting, through the dairy and into the 
 farmyard. 
 
 *'Lily, Lily, my child, come back! Let there 
 be no more hiding," cried Miss Dulcinea, calling 
 after her in terror. "Oh, Sally, nm, run after 
 her. Don't let her out of your sight. I am so 
 nervous now, I can't bear to lose sight of any one 
 for a moment," she cried to the little maid, who 
 was busy skimming the cream, and who willingly 
 left her work and ran in pursuit of the truant. 
 
 Clara did not go through the formality of 
 knocking at the humble door of Catherine's cot- 
 tage ; for she measured her politeness by the size 
 of her neighbours' houses, and was accustomed 
 to intrude upon the privacy of the villagers with- 
 out hesitation or apology. 
 
 **Here you are, Aunt Dulcinea," she said, "I 
 have brought the carriage — Bonner was very 
 good about it, though he must have been an- 
 noyed at bringing his horses up that dreadful 
 road; but I ordered the old victoria, so that the 
 sides getting scratched wouldn't matter so much, 
 and I have come to take Lily home." 
 
 "But I have promised not to let her go, Clara," 
 said poor Miss Dulcinea nervously. "The child 
 
280 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 wishes to stay here where her father placed her, 
 you know.'* 
 
 "George placed her in Catherine's care, and, 
 as mamma says, a terrible lesson has he had, to 
 show him the unsuitability of Catherine for such 
 a trust," said Clara solemnly. **But he would 
 never have sent her to stay with you, Aunt Dul- 
 cinea. That is quite a different thing. Catherine 
 is not, as mamma says, a practical person, but 
 she has, of course, a certain position as the widow 
 of Sir Philip Adelstane, though she has foolishly 
 never even tried to live up to it. But it is a very 
 different thing from leaving Lily with you.'* 
 
 *'Am I not her grandfather's own sister," cried 
 Miss Dulcinea indignantly ; * ' her own aunt ? ' ' 
 
 **You are her great-aunt, of course. Nobody 
 ever denied that. But it is I who am her aunt, 
 and mamma said I was to fetch her." 
 
 * * Has George written ? ' ' 
 
 **How could George write? He is searching 
 for Philippa day and night. But of course he 
 would not wish Lily to remain now that Catherine 
 has gone. And I must say, though I make every 
 excuse for the dreadful state poor Catherine 
 must be in — and we all pity her, I am sure, from 
 the bottom of our hearts — yet she ought to have 
 brought Lily home when she went to London. It is 
 not as if our house wasn't on the way to the station, 
 for it is. And I am determined to take Lily, Aunt 
 Dulcinea^ so please say no more about it,** 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 281 
 
 **And I am equally determined no one shall 
 take her without authority from George," cried 
 Miss Dulcinea indignantly; **I wonder you 
 can want to take her away, Clara, I do indeed, 
 when you know how well she is, and how happily 
 she is occupied. Look at the drawing she was 
 doing when you interrupted us. I declare it is 
 the funniest thing that was ever seen, and as 
 like me as two peas, as I can see for myself, for 
 that is just the way my cap falls to one side 
 when I drop off into a nap." 
 
 ''Caricaturing is a very bad habit," said Clara 
 sharply. 
 
 "Well, and so it may be, but I don't see why 
 you should call it a caricature, for it is just a 
 very excellent likeness,'* said honest Miss Dul- 
 cinea simply. "She takes after her poor mother, 
 and draws everything she sees. I believe the 
 child is a genius!" 
 
 Clara was indignant, as persons of her calibre 
 in all ages have ever been, at the mere supposition 
 that a contemporary of their own could be a 
 genius. 
 
 "I never heard such rubbish. Aunt Dulcinea. 
 You needn't think to put me off by showing 
 me Lily's drawings. As if I had not seen them 
 often enough, and punished her too for spoiling 
 the edges of her copybooks. Please send for 
 her at once. Surely you can see that I mean 
 what I say." 
 
282 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 **Do you think I am one to give up a little 
 thing who clings to us, at half a word from my 
 own niece? You can just go home by yourself, 
 Clara, and that's all about it.'* And Miss 
 Dulcinea sat down with her hand to her 
 heart, and a very bright colour in her soft old 
 cheeks. 
 
 **I do not think you can be serious, Aunt 
 Dulcinea," said Clara, *'when I tell you I have 
 brought the carriage all the way up here for no 
 other purpose than to take Lily back. Bonner 
 had actually to drive into that rough paddock 
 to turn round." 
 
 "It does not matter. The hay was cut long 
 ago," said Miss Dulcinea defiantly. 
 
 **Does not matter!" said Clara, hardly able 
 to believe her ears. **When you know we never 
 bring the carriage up here? I cannot think you 
 know half you are saying, Aunt Dulcinea. And 
 if you will excuse me, I shall not waste time 
 arguing with you any more. I shall call Lily 
 for myself." 
 
 "Clara, I cannot give you authority to run 
 over Catherine's house, and I am sure she would 
 not Hke it," said Miss Dulcinea, trembling with 
 apprehension. 
 
 **I am quite as nearly related to Catherine 
 as you are. It would be hard, indeed, if relations 
 could not go in and out of each other's houses 
 without ceremony. And I have mamma's author- 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 283 
 
 ity, which is much more than yours could ever 
 be," said Clara importantly. 
 
 But in vain did she call, and in vain did she 
 question the overgrown Johnny Roper and the 
 rosy- faced maiden, whom she discovered, to her 
 great indignation, giggling together in the farm- 
 yard. 
 
 "There is no order, no discipline, on Catherine's 
 estate, small as it is,'* sighed Clara, and she 
 grew hot and tired searching the farm premises 
 and beyond them. Her loud voice echoed through 
 the rafters of stable and bam, and reached the 
 darkest recesses of the little wood; until Bonner 
 sent a pointed message to inquire if he were to 
 keep the horses standing any longer, or to put 
 them up. 
 
 "It is you who are backing up Lily, or she 
 would not have dared to behave so," said Clara, 
 when at length she retired baffled from the quest. 
 "I shall tell mamma, Aunt Dulcinea, and she will 
 know what to do. You need not think she will 
 give in." 
 
 Miss Dulcinea did not know whether to laugh 
 or to cry. She watched the insulted Clara drive 
 away, and when she was quite out of sight, 
 ventured to the north door of the dairy, and 
 uttered a timid call or two upon her own account. 
 
 "Here I am, Auntie," said Lily, and she slid 
 down the great oak at the back of the cottage 
 with a suddenness which caused Miss Dulcinea 
 
284 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 to scream aloud. " I thought of King Charles, 
 you know, and climbed up in a minute and Sally 
 ran just underneath me to the farmyard. It 
 was so funny!" 
 
 "Promise me never to do so again. You might 
 have broken your neck, my darling. And oh, 
 what a scene poor Lydia will make! O dear, O 
 dear, that there should be so much trouble and 
 unpleasantness in this world on such a beautiful 
 evening as this! " said poor Miss Dulcinea, bursting 
 into tears. 
 
 "Was Aunt Clara so very horrid?" said Lily, 
 putting her arms round the old lady's neck pro- 
 tectingly. "Never mind. Auntie, all you have 
 to do now is to write a telegram to papa, and 
 ask him to say I may stop with you till Cousin 
 Catherine comes home." 
 
 "The sense of the child! " said poor Miss Dul- 
 cinea; "why didn't I think of it before?" and 
 she sat down and wrote out with trembling 
 fingers a message to her nephew, and desired 
 Johnny Roper to convey it to the post-office 
 immediately. 
 
 The single clue supplied by the policeman at 
 the comer of Belgrave Square had multiplied 
 into a thousand others, bewildering by very rea- 
 son of their number and variety, before the day 
 fixed for the funeral of Sir Cecil Adelstane, which 
 was the fifth after Philippa's disappearance. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 285 
 
 It would seem that tall schoolgirls, in blue 
 serge dresses and black straw hats, abounded 
 in every quarter of London and the suburbs; 
 and that they all answered minutely to the 
 description of Philippa, and had been observed 
 at one hour or another of that fateful Saturday, 
 travelling by rail or by road in every possible 
 direction. 
 
 Paragraphs with sensational headings — ** Ab- 
 duction of an Heiress," "Mysterious Disappear- 
 ance of Sir Cecil Adelstane's Niece on the Day 
 of his Death," "Supposed Elopement of the 
 greatest Heiress in England" — appeared in the 
 daily papers, after the insertion of the advertise- 
 ments and the offers of large rewards for any 
 information leading to her discovery. Explana- 
 tions of similar mysterious disappearances of 
 young girls were recalled, and related at length 
 in the newspapers, and David Moore spent the 
 most anxious days and nights of his life in the 
 Raits' automobile, following up every suggestion 
 with the energy of despair, and interviewing 
 hundreds of persons who were anxious to obtain 
 any portion of the proposed rewards, though they 
 had nothing to offer in exchange. 
 
 Catherine became but the ghost of herself in 
 those five days. The look in her great eyes, wild 
 with misery, and unnaturally bright with sleepless- 
 ness, haunted David's thoughts, and drove him to 
 make incredible exertions, but all to no purpose. 
 
286 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 He refused to leave London to attend the 
 funeral at Welwysbere, and no one proposed 
 that Catherine should do so. Her days and 
 nights were possessed with the thought of her 
 child, and she showed not the slightest interest 
 in the information that Sir Cecil had appointed 
 her executrix of his will and trustee of Philippa's 
 inheritance, jointly with George Chilcott. All 
 the necessary business was left to George, who 
 was surprised and touched by this mark of the 
 esteem in which poor Sir Cecil had held him, and 
 who was perforce obliged to leave the search for 
 the missing heiress to others, while he attended 
 first the inquest and then the funeral of his 
 friend and neighbour, and listened to the explana- 
 tions of Mr. Ash. 
 
 The yacht was left to Augusta, but the Abbey 
 was not, as she expected, to be hers for life, but 
 was willed direct to Philippa, to be maintained 
 or let, until her coming of age or marriage, accord- 
 ing to the discretion of the trustees; while the 
 Adelstane jewels, and every farthing Sir Cecil 
 possessed outside his marriage settlements, went 
 with the estate. 
 
 Augusta in the midst of her grief, and the 
 shock of seeing herself for the first time in wid- 
 ow's weeds, found time to be astonished and 
 offended at the provisions of her late hus- 
 band's testament. 
 
 "Of course I bought the house in Belgrave 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 287 
 
 Square and my river bungalow with my own 
 money; and my own diamonds are finer than 
 anything the Adelstanes ever owned, though 
 they may not be so old," she said to Lady Grace; 
 *'but really one might say I owe nothing to poor 
 Cecil, at this rate, except the yacht, which, of 
 course, I shall sell. How can a woman go yacht- 
 ing by herself? And if she took any one with her 
 there would only be a talk. But I did think 
 I should have had the Abbey for my life." 
 
 ** Perhaps it was not in his power." 
 
 "That is all nonsense. I am sure it must 
 have been." 
 
 **You know you always hated the place, 
 Augusta." 
 
 "I shall hate it more than ever, now that it 
 is left away from me so oddly," said Augusta, 
 weeping. "Oh, Grace, how httle did we think 
 when we left this house only a few weeks ago — 
 you and me — that when we came back I should 
 be — a widow!" 
 
 "Poor Augusta!" 
 
 "Just fancy, Grace, if only poor Cecil had 
 come up to town with us, instead of bothering 
 himself over this stupid business with the agent, 
 he would have been alive now." 
 
 With such reflections, oft repeated, did Augusta 
 beguile the hours that elapsed between the 
 funeral and the reading of her late husband's 
 will, and her departure from the Abbey ; and her 
 
288 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 bosom friend found her trite ejaculations exces- 
 sively wearisome, as she sat patiently by the 
 side of Lady Adelstane's couch, in her carefully 
 darkened boudoir. 
 
 ' ' I suppose I look too dreadful," wailed Augusta. 
 **I can't sleep at night, what with thinking what 
 has become of Philippa, and this dreadful blow. 
 I feel all this trouble must have made its mark 
 on me, and I hardly dare look at my own face 
 in the glass, feeling as I do!" 
 
 "Black is very becoming to you," said Lady 
 Grace; "but, of course, crying is not becoming 
 to any one. If I were you I should try not to 
 cry any more. What good does it do?" 
 
 "That is what Blanche says. She is so unsym- 
 pathetic," sobbed Augusta resentfully. "Yet 
 if I show the slightest interest in anything prac- 
 tical, she is ready to hint that I never cared for 
 poor Cecil at all. One's relatives are very poor 
 comfort in time of trouble, I must say." 
 
 "They are very poor comfort at any time, 
 so far as I have ever been able to make out," 
 said Lady Grace. "Try not to talk about it, 
 Gussie, and you will grow calmer.'* 
 
 But Augusta had no idea of growing calmer 
 until the first days of mourning should be over, 
 and gave full vent to her emotions upon every 
 opportunity. 
 
 "How her ladyship du take on," said the 
 west-country servants admiringly. But Pilking- 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 289 
 
 ton contented himself with a dark reminder that 
 shallow water made most noise. 
 
 George Chilcott proposed to escort Augusta 
 back to town on the morning after the funeral, 
 when, as Philippa's trustee, he felt doubly bound 
 to devote himself to the search. He had replied 
 to Miss Dulcinea's telegram with a peremptory- 
 request that she should keep Lily at Shepherd's 
 Rest, and as he wrote a line to the same effect 
 to Clara, the effort to reclaim the child had been 
 abandoned by his mother and sister, and George 
 did not, in the midst of his new cares, give much 
 thought to his little daughter, of whose happiness 
 he felt assured, and whom he had not time to 
 visit. 
 
 But as he stood upon the platform at Tiverton, 
 watching the arrival of the Welwysbere car- 
 riage, and the almost reverential reception of 
 the new-made widow, whose face was hidden 
 by an opaque crape veil, and who leant the weight 
 of her affliction heavily upon the arm of her 
 good-natured brother-in-law, followed by Blanche 
 Rait and Grace Trumoin — George was startled 
 by a sudden timid touch upon his arm. 
 
 There stood little Lily, looking up at him 
 with great frightened eyes, though a furtive 
 smile hovered about her face, which was some- 
 thing plumper and rosier than when he had seen 
 it last. 
 
290 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 **Why, my little Lily," he said, surprised 
 and startled at this unexpected apparition. He 
 lifted her from the ground to brush her fore- 
 head with his moustache. ''Has Aimt Dulcinea 
 brought you down to see your dad off? That 
 is very good of her." 
 
 "Don't be angry, papa," faltered Lily. 
 
 "You came alone?" George looked vexed and 
 a worried pucker rose between his brows. "That 
 was not right, Lily." 
 
 "No, no, Sally came. I go for walks with 
 Sally," and she indicated a cheerful ruddy coun- 
 tenance in the background of Augusta's solemn 
 train of black-clad retainers. "Aunt Dulcinea 
 said I might come — she did not like to intrude — " 
 said Lily, in an awe-struck whisper, with another 
 quick glance towards the black-clad group. ' ' But 
 she said no one would mind mey as I am so little. 
 She did not know why I wanted so much to come." 
 
 "Not to see me?" said George, relieved of his 
 fears lest Lily should have lapsed into evil ways 
 under the feeble rule of poor Miss Dulcinea. 
 
 "I wanted to see you, daddy," said Lily, 
 with the coaxing accent which Clara deprecated, 
 and she laid her face against the big hand. Then 
 she looked up imploringly and cried, "Oh, 
 daddy, take me with you!" 
 
 "Why, I thought you wanted so much to 
 stay at Shepherd's Rest? Wasn't that what you 
 wanted?" 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 291 
 
 **Yes, yes, I like being there," said Lily al- 
 most feverishly. "But it's not that, it's not 
 that! Oh, daddy, daddy, I want to go to Cousin 
 Catherine." 
 
 *'My dear," said George gently, ** don't you 
 know Cousin Catherine is in very great trouble 
 now? She couldn't think of you or of anything 
 else." 
 
 "I know, I know, but I don't want her to 
 think of me. I want to comfort her," said Lily, 
 clasping her little thin hands with a gesture so 
 like Delia's, that George almost started. **I 
 daresay you think it would be impossible, a 
 little girl like me; but, oh, you don't know how 
 Cousin Catherine cried at night when Philippa 
 went to London, and she said it comforted her 
 then to have me with her, and I am sure it 
 would comfort her again now. Oh, do take me, 
 I could comfort her at night," said the child 
 almost passionately, ''and every one says it will 
 kill her if Philippa is never found any more." 
 
 George Chilcott pulled his moustache irres- 
 olutely. His heart inclined him to take Lily 
 to London. 
 
 "If I thought it would comfort Catherine," 
 he said, and looked appealing at Lady Grace and 
 Mrs. Rait, who had greeted him in silence, and 
 now stood looking down at the little anxious 
 questioner, who was too much absorbed in her re- 
 quest to have even noted their proximity. "But 
 
292 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 I couldn't take you in any case to-day, there 
 would have to be all sorts of arrangements made. 
 I'll think about it, Lily, and perhaps send for 
 you later." 
 
 "But there need be no arrangements, for I 
 have made them all," said the little creature, 
 trembling with hope. She was holding a tightly 
 packed brown-paper parcel under her left arm, 
 which she now produced and exhibited. **I 
 have brought my nightgown and my tooth- 
 brush and a pair of shoes and three clean pocket- 
 handkerchiefs in case you should say yes. And 
 I have my Sunday frock on. I am all ready for 
 London, papa, I am indeed!" 
 
 **Poor little thing!" said Lady Grace. 
 
 **Such forethought ought to be rewarded," 
 said Mrs. Rait, her hearty tones somewhat sub- 
 dued to attune with her mourning garb. I be- 
 lieve it might do Catherine good, if anything 
 would," she said. "Let's take her along, Mr. 
 Chilcott. Grace and I will look after her, and 
 if Catherine doesn't want her, why, there's no 
 harm done, for I'll take her to my hotel, and 
 welcome." 
 
 "It's most awfully kind of you," said George; 
 "but there's Miss Dulcinea to be thought of." 
 
 "I have written a letter for Sally to take back; 
 she has it in her pocket. I tried to think of 
 everything," said Lily's small treble. "I didn't 
 want nobody to be anxious about me." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 293 
 
 Having thus miraculously obtained her wish, 
 and heard Augusta's faint assent to Mrs. Ralt's 
 proposition that the child should travel with 
 them, Lily had the sense to efface herself as much 
 as possible, following Lady Grace like a shadow, 
 and not daring to utter a sound in Augusta's 
 portly sable-shrouded presence. 
 
 She curled herself into the comer of the com- 
 partment she was told to enter, and looked out 
 of the window, watching her father give a leaf 
 out of his pocket-book to Sally for Miss Dulcinea, 
 and send her away, and hardly daring to breathe 
 until the train was off, when she ventured upon 
 a whispered inquiry. 
 
 "Isn't daddy coming?*' 
 
 ** He is in a smoking carriage." 
 
 She was so small and slight for her age, that 
 she was used to being lifted on to people's knees, 
 and, after an hour or two of patient silence in 
 her comer, accepted gratefully the overtures of 
 Lady Grace, and came and sat in her lap. Their 
 conversation was carried on in whispers for fear 
 of waking Augusta; until presently drowsiness 
 overtook Lily herself, and she fell asleep with 
 her head on her friend's shoulder. 
 
 To Grace Trumoin it was almost a strange 
 sensation to have a child slumbering in her arms, 
 and she felt very tenderly towards Lily, whose 
 black eyelashes lay against such a small pale 
 face that she looked scarcely more than a baby 
 
294 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 as she slept. The thin childish arms embraced 
 her waist, and the little dark head gradually- 
 drooped until it lay in the hollow of her arm, 
 and it was so that Lily's father saw them 
 together, when the train stopped at Swindon. 
 
 The warm colour rose in Lady Grace's face 
 as she met his pleased grateful look, because, 
 alas, she knew that Blanche Rait was looking 
 on and approving, in the belief that she was 
 acting by design, and playing her cards well in 
 the pre-arranged game of matrimony. 
 
 "He will not think so," she said to herself 
 sadly; "he is indeed without guile, humble and 
 unsuspecting in his strength and his honesty. 
 And if they knew what was in my heart — what 
 a longing for duties clear, and simple, and straight- 
 forward, for a place of rest, to be necessary to 
 some one, even if it were only this poor little 
 girl — they would not understand; with their 
 kind vulgar scheming to find George Chilcott a 
 wife, and me a home of my own." 
 
 But she did Blanche Rait, at least, injustice; 
 for though she might be vulgar, and a schemer, 
 she would have understood, and but that she 
 believed Grace Trumoin would make George's 
 happiness and her own in the hoped-for marriage, 
 she would not have lifted her little finger to bring 
 it about. 
 
 The agony of joy which little Lily exhibited 
 when she threw herself into Catherine's arms 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 295 
 
 melted the hearts of all who were present except 
 Catherine herself; for there is, perhaps, no 
 heart so dead towards another woman's child as 
 that of the mother who has just lost her own. 
 
 Poor little Lily, who had mistaken Catherine's 
 motherly tenderness, and the caresses which 
 had been heaped upon her at Shepherd's Rest 
 for evidence that she was as dearly loved as 
 Philippa herself, felt all the chill of disappoint- 
 ment without knowing why, and the conviction 
 that they had made a mistake flashed upon 
 Blanche Rait, who drew Catherine aside. 
 
 "Look here, Catherine, there is no reason 
 you should be saddled with that kid. Let me 
 take her to the hotel with us. Or, here is Grace 
 Trumoin dying to take charge of her. They've 
 taken a regular fancy to one another. And you 
 look like a ghost, you're not fit to have her with 
 you. But the poor little atom, you see, took it 
 into her head that she would be a comfort to 
 you." 
 
 **A comfort!" Catherine almost smiled. 
 
 **Aye — well, I see we were a pack of fools; but 
 you know we didn't want to leave a stone un- 
 turned — and if she could have brought you the 
 merest shred — one never knows. A child, or an 
 animal, I've often found are better comforters 
 to us in trouble than we can be to each other — 
 though I've never known such trouble as yours. 
 But you sha'n't be bothered '* 
 
296 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 **Stay!" cried Catherine, recovering herself. 
 "I am growing selfish and hateful in my trouble. 
 Did I seem unloving to Delia's child, poor little 
 Lily?" 
 
 "Of course it's understood you want nobody's 
 child about you just now," said Blanche. 
 
 "How could I be so unkind!" said Catherine, 
 and with a sudden revulsion of feeling she ran 
 to Lily, who was standing forlornly at the end of 
 the room, holding her father's hand, and clinging 
 faithfully to her brown-paper parcel. She kissed 
 the child many times to make amends for her 
 coldness, vehemently insisting that she should 
 remain in charge of herself and Roper, and not 
 be carried off to Lady Grace's flat or Mrs. Ralt's 
 hotel. 
 
 "I am sure I have no objection, I am only too 
 willing to agree to anything that can be of any 
 comfort to anybody," said Augusta faintly, 
 when Catherine appealed for her consent to 
 this arrangement. "Only, mind, I distinctly 
 decline to be responsible for her. I have had 
 quite enough, Catherine, of trying to take care 
 of other people's children." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 However deep the sorrow, the comments of a 
 fool can still aggravate the torments of anxiety, 
 as the worrying of a cur tortured the dying lion 
 in the fable. 
 
 **Here is Friday and no news. I am almost 
 beginning to give up hope, aren't you, Catherine ? " 
 wailed Augusta. 
 
 *'I shall never give up hope,** said Catherine, 
 with white lips. 
 
 *'It*s a week to-morrow,** said Augusta. "I 
 simply can't understand it. I always thought 
 the police were so clever. I must say I shall 
 never think so again." 
 
 "They are doing their best; and many others 
 are searching besides the police.'* 
 
 **What do you really think has become of 
 her?" said Augusta. 
 
 She asked this question at intervals with 
 maddening persistency, and made, besides, end- 
 less suggestions of no practical value, greatly 
 to her own satisfaction and the impatience of 
 her family. 
 
 "If it were possible to request Augusta to 
 297 
 
298 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 walk out of her own house," said old Lady Sarah 
 to Catherine, who went daily to Curzon Street 
 to make her sorrowful report of failure, "it would 
 afford me sincere pleasure to do so. I suppose 
 one can*t go as far as that. I came very near 
 asking her to leave mine this morning, however. 
 There she sat, asking me who came next to 
 Philippa in the succession. I told her, Philippa's 
 son," said the old lady, fuming, "and was within 
 an ace of flinging this scent-bottle at her head. 
 I wish I had done it, too. At my age no one 
 could say much, no matter what I did. I should 
 plead softening of the brain, or senile decay," 
 and she laughed grimly. "But what can you 
 expect? I don't believe she has ever given a 
 sincere thought to poor Cecil's death; she is so 
 taken up with her own widowhood." Then her 
 tone changed to bitterness. "Oh, my dear, my 
 dear, why don't you reproach me with my fool's 
 advice to you?" 
 
 "Do not reproach yourself," said Catherine, 
 and she kissed the soft old hand. "It was not 
 only you, it was poor Cecil too, and David Moore. 
 All so different, and yet all seeing no reason why 
 I should not let my darling go." 
 
 "I would kill myself if it would do any good," 
 said Lady Sarah vehemently. 
 
 "And I shouldn't have listened to any of you — 
 if it had not been — oh, if it had not been, that she 
 wished it so much. I never forget that," said 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 299 
 
 Catherine with quivering lips. **0h, Lady 
 Sarah, you are very clever — cannot you think 
 of something more that we could do?'* 
 
 **My dear, my dear, I wish I could. But there 
 is no reason for any one but Augusta to give up 
 hope," said Lady Sarah, affecting a cheerfulness 
 she did not feel. **No blackmailer could come 
 forward in the midst of this hue and cry. They 
 would be certain to wait until some of the excite- 
 ment had died down, and until they could get 
 her safely away and bargain from a coign of 
 vantage. It is the best sign possible that we can 
 hear nothing, that there has been no news. 
 
 Catherine kissed the soft old hand again in 
 silence. Her misery was too deep for words. 
 
 *'I believe Catherine is in the right, and that 
 woman Minart knows something," said Blanche 
 Rait bluntly to David. "Why don't you get it 
 out of her? You could if any one could. She's 
 in love with you." 
 
 ''Nonsense," said David, at once annoyed, 
 embarrassed, and incredulous, as an Englishman 
 usually is at any suggestion that a woman to 
 whom he is indifferent has shown signs of a 
 preference for him. 
 
 "You may say nonsense, but it's plain fact; 
 the sort of fact nobody would mention but I, 
 who pride myself on saying anything that comes 
 into my head," said Blanche, and indee 1 there 
 
300 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 was no communication too delicate for her to 
 make to her astonished friends. 
 
 "She rather avoids me than otherwise," said 
 David, almost angrily. 
 
 "That's a bad sign," said Mrs. Rait, shaking 
 her head. 
 
 "Surely it would be a worse sign if she ran 
 after me," he retorted, laughing in spite of himself. 
 
 "Not at all; she avoids you because she's 
 afraid to trust herself alone with you, for fear 
 of turning soft and letting out her secret. Take 
 my advice, get her alone, and shake it out of 
 her." 
 
 "She has told us all she knows." 
 
 "She has not." 
 
 "You suspect her because she*s a foreigner, 
 like poor old George." 
 
 "I suspect her because nobody knows anything 
 about her." 
 
 "The police have verified her references." 
 
 "What does that amount to? She has stayed 
 a couple of years each in half a dozen families, 
 learning their secrets and keeping her own," said 
 Mrs. Rait contemptuously. "She is deep and 
 cunning, and she gained a great influence over 
 poor little Philippa, who is only just clever 
 enough to be sillier than other people, and to put 
 her whole trust in a woman she'd never seen 
 before because she flattered her. She tries to 
 flatter Augusta, but it's a bit awkward for both 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 301 
 
 of them when I'm about," said Mrs. Rait, laughing 
 shortly. "However, her flattery has done very 
 little for her, since Augusta has no intention of 
 keeping her. She declares now she only got her 
 for Philippa's sake.'* 
 
 "Poor woman!" 
 
 "I waste no pity on her. Poor Philippa, I 
 say; to be taken away from her mother, and 
 handed over to the tender mercies of a woman 
 like that." 
 
 David groaned. 
 
 "There! I know I'm a Job's comforter. But 
 there is sl certain comfort too; for if I'm right, 
 it couldn't be to her interest that Philippa should 
 come to bodily hurt," said Mrs. Rait, relenting. 
 "You mustn't take to heart what I say." 
 
 "I care little enough what any one says to 
 me," said David sadly, "but you know it was I 
 — ^like the confounded ass I am — who undertook 
 the responsibility of advising Catherine to let 
 Philippa come here." 
 
 "Aye, did you? Well, you didn't know Augusta 
 so well then as you do now, I'll be bound," said 
 Mrs. Rait. 
 
 Since that first terrible moment when she 
 learnt that her child was lost, Catherine had 
 hardly rested. She had spent many hours of the 
 long summer nights, attended by the faithful 
 terrified Roper, wandering in the streets. 
 
302 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 ** You'll kill yourself, my lady, and what good 
 can we do?" sobbed Roper, who was old and 
 stout, and very little suited to share these noctur- 
 nal wanderings ; but nevertheless determined that 
 her mistress should not trust herself alone in 
 London streets after dark. 
 
 "Would you have me going tranquilly to bed, 
 not knowing my darling's fate, or where she may 
 be, or what may be happening to her? I should 
 go mad the moment my head touched my pillow," 
 said Catherine vehemently; and though Roper 
 slept heavily in the daytime to make up for her 
 broken repose, her mistress seemed able to exist 
 without sleep at all; and when she fell now 
 and then into an uneasy doze in an arm-chair, 
 her dreams were so frightful that she woke 
 screaming with terror, and filled with nameless 
 apprehensions. 
 
 "It will kill her if it goes on," Roper said 
 despairingly, yet neither she nor the others could 
 do aught to relieve the strain. 
 
 But on the second night after little Lily's 
 arrival, resting her tired body for a moment 
 on the child's bed, and her head upon the child's 
 pillow as she bade her good-night, Catherine 
 fell suddenly asleep. 
 
 Lily, having spent a whole day in this atmos- 
 phere of unrest, and heard, it may be, from the 
 servants many surmises not intended for her ears, 
 had perhaps realised more clearly the gravity 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 303 
 
 of the situation, and the agony of Philippa's 
 mother; for she had poured forth passionately, 
 with her face hidden upon Catherine's breast, 
 her prayer for her cousin's safe return. 
 
 She prayed aloud, as a child of her age usually 
 does, and as the petition did not form part of 
 her usual formula, she used language all her 
 own; earnest, stilted, and full of quaint mistakes 
 which would have made Catherine smile in a 
 happier time, but now only caused her tears to 
 flow more freely, as she followed words she could 
 not have borne from older lips. 
 
 "God may listen to this little innocent, per- 
 haps, though He has not listened to me," she 
 thought. And it was during that moment's 
 opening of her heart to consolation, as the child's 
 voice softly murmured in her ears, that her 
 strained nerves suddenly relaxed their tension, 
 and sleep, deep and dreamless, overtook her 
 tired brain. 
 
 Catherine slept, and the child waked ; not daring 
 to move, scarcely even to breathe, lest she should 
 disturb that slumber. 
 
 "Roper said she would die if she didn't sleep; 
 and now she has gone to sleep, so she will not 
 die," thought Lily. "But she said some one must 
 be always watching for Philippa. I will watch. 
 They think me a baby, but I am not a baby, and 
 I can lie awake as well as a grown-up person. I 
 shall think one of my thinks until I get excited 
 
304 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 and interested, and when one is excited and in- 
 terested one never feels sleepy." 
 
 The hours of the night rolled on, and Catherine 
 never moved, and it was not until the dawn began 
 to grow in the sky, visible above the trees of the 
 square through the uncurtained open window, 
 that Lily's eyelids grew too heavy for her heroism, 
 and closed without her own knowledge. 
 
 Dawn grew to day, the sunshine streamed 
 through the open window, and Catherine woke, 
 at first to peace, and then to that sudden familiar 
 pang of recollected sorrow. She realised that 
 she had slept through the night, wrapped in her 
 wool dressing-gown, on the little bed which had 
 been placed beside her own for Lily. Her start 
 woke the child. 
 
 *'I haven't been to sleep," said Lily drowsily, 
 **at least, I didn't mean to. I saw the daylight 
 come. I was watching. Cousin Catherine, and 
 you went to sleep while I was saying my prayers. 
 Do you remember?" 
 
 *'I remember." 
 
 **I kept awake, thinking. One of my thinks 
 was that you told daddy I was a comfort to you ; 
 so that he was glad he listened to me and brought 
 me here." She stole a glance at Catherine. "Do 
 you think that will ever come true?" 
 
 **Yes, Lily, yes, I promise it shall come true." 
 
 "Sometimes you break your promises," said 
 Lily wistfully. "You said you'd come back — 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 305 
 
 and you didn't come back. You didn't even 
 write. But I'm not blaming you," she added 
 hastily. *'I know grown-up people are not very 
 good at keeping promises. Philippa never breaks 
 her promises, so wherever she is I expect I shall 
 get her letter as usual," said Lily calmly. **I 
 told Sally to be sure and forward it." 
 
 Catherine looked startled. 
 
 "When did you get her last letter?" 
 
 '*0n Saturday morning. I always get it on 
 Saturday. She writes on Friday, and I on Sun- 
 day," explained Lily. "We agreed we was to 
 all the time she was away. But I wrote an extra 
 to tell her I was at Shepherd's Rest, so she need 
 not be so careful what she wrote; because at 
 home Aunt Clara reads my letters, and so Philippa 
 can't tell me any of her secrets like she does other 
 times. And you got a letter from her too on 
 Saturday morning, Cousin Catherine, don't you 
 remember? Or is it too short a time ago for you 
 to remember? You said once that old people 
 remembered best what happened a long time 
 ago. Only you were down at the Abbey when 
 it came, because of poor Sir Cecil." Her voice 
 sank to an awe-struck whisper. 
 
 **Yes, I got a letter, but Philippa did not tell 
 me any secrets in it," said Catherine anxiously. 
 "Think, Lily, think, my darling. Did she 
 tell you anything — anything special in that 
 letter?" 
 
306 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 "Lots and lots of special things," said Lily 
 surprised. "Because she knew I wouldn't have 
 to show it to any one at Shepherd's Rest, you 
 know. So she put 'Private,' and told me all 
 her secrets — at least nearly all — ^just as if we had 
 been talking. There was four whole sheets. I 
 read it all alone in the porch while I ate my 
 strawberries because Aunt Dulcinea was crying 
 too much to come to breakfast." 
 
 "Lily, you haven't lost that letter, have you? 
 You know where it is?" 
 
 "It's here," said Lily, and she stretched out her 
 arm, took her Sunday frock from the post of the 
 little bed where Catherine had slept so soundly, 
 and lugged a thick crumpled letter from a small 
 torn calico pocket. * ' I always keep her last letter 
 in my pocket till the next one comes ; but I can't 
 show it to you, Cousin Catherine," she said re- 
 proachfully, "when I told you it was private." 
 
 "There will be nothing — I cannot believe there 
 would be — anything," said Catherine to herself, 
 trembling, with her eyes fixed on the letter. 
 *'But there might be — there might — Lily, you will 
 show me the letter, won't you, if I promise faith- 
 fully, faithfully, not to tell any of the secrets?" 
 
 But she would not take it from the child, 
 though she put both arms round her, and held 
 her and her letter tightly. 
 
 "I can't, it is private," said Lily, and began 
 to cry. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 307 
 
 But Catherine laid her cheek against the Httle 
 face, and coaxed and petted and reasoned until 
 the poor little conscience wavered. 
 
 '*If you are sure it will help to find Philippa 
 — if you solemnly promise to forget everything 
 in it — if you will tell her that it was your fault, 
 that you made me," she gasped between her sobs. 
 And the end of it was that she sat by, frightened 
 and miserable, gazing with reproachful eyes 
 while Catherine read the scrawled blotted out- 
 pourings which resembled so little Philippa' s 
 carefully indited letters to her mother. 
 
 They were very innocent secrets that Philippa 
 had confided to her small contemporary; but 
 expressed with the tenderness and sentiment 
 which the young are apt to conceal, however 
 unconsciously, from their parents and guardians, 
 and lavish upon each other; as though authority 
 must of necessity make full confidence impossible. 
 
 Little Lily possessed the rare gift of sympathy, 
 besides an intelligence far beyond her years, so 
 that, young as she was, she stood more upon a 
 level with Philippa in her dreams and fancies 
 than her elders could, who would have had to 
 look back twenty years or more into the past 
 before they could realise the point of view from 
 which Philippa wrote: 
 
 **My own darling Lilpil, — It*s glorious your 
 being at Shepherd's Rest like we always planned. 
 
308 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 No, of course I am not one bit jealous, it would 
 be very odd if I was, when I am having such a 
 splendid time. I promise you shall go on being 
 my most confidential friend, just as you always 
 have been; but of course there are things I 
 couldn't possibly tell you till you're in your 
 teens, then I will certainly tell you everything. 
 Still, I've thousands of secrets I can tell you, 
 and now, instead of saving them up till we meet, 
 I can write them, as you won't have to show 
 your letters to any one at Shepherd's Rest. 
 
 ** Really my most delightful secret is that I've 
 almost made up my mind to be an Army nurse, 
 but don't tell any one, as you know how people 
 always laugh at one. They wear red crosses on 
 their arms and go to wars wherever there's 
 fighting. Cousin David told me about them, 
 and how some of them died from hard work in 
 the South African War. I thought how delight- 
 ful it would be if he were wounded — ^not badly, 
 you know, but enough to want nursing — and 
 was carried into a tent, and found me waiting 
 in a lovely white cap and apron, to take care 
 of him. If you like, darling, you may decide 
 to be one too, and then we can have talks about 
 it when we meet. 
 
 ** Another secret is that I gave the sovereign 
 granny tipped me and said I was not to waste, 
 to an old, old man who looks very wretched, 
 and sweeps a crossing close by here. I suppose 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 300 
 
 she could hardly call that wasting it. He has a 
 long white beard and looks venerable. He said 
 'God bless you.' Wasn't it sweet of him? It 
 made me feel so pleased and uncomfortable; 
 you know the feeling. Most people give him a 
 penny, which I think frightfully mean. Don't 
 tell any one this, of course, they would only say 
 he would get drunk, and on the contrary he was 
 back again at work that very afternoon, rather 
 to my surprise, looking wretcheder than ever. 
 So he probably put it straight in the bank, or gave 
 it to his wife and children. I do miss you, darling; 
 though, of course, not so much as if I hadn't 
 got Mme. Minart. It's quite different since she 
 came. Cousin Augusta lets us go somewhere 
 every day, and often never even troubles to ask 
 where! Mme. Minart keeps a little book and 
 puts down our expenses, and if I happen to be 
 hungry she never minds popping into Gunter's 
 or somewhere, and having ices, only she prefers 
 brandy-cherries, which I tasted and found simply 
 disgusting. And we go everywhere in hansoms, 
 which, as you may suppose, is much more amus- 
 ing than going in the carriage with Cousin Augusta, 
 who used to go shopping or pay visits, and leave 
 me sitting outside for hours. 
 
 **We go to matinees at the theatre, and one 
 day we went to the Tower, and one day to the 
 Crystal Palace, which you would have simply 
 loved, as there is a charming stall there where you 
 
310 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 can buy cocoa-nut candy. We had a long day 
 there together. Oh, Lily, she is such an angel. 
 I will tell you a secret about her, but this is 
 quite private, remember, and I only tell you that 
 you may know how noble she is. She has a poor 
 consumptive sister who lives quite close to the 
 Crystal Palace, and a wretched nephew who is 
 always getting into trouble, so that she never 
 even lets them know her address, and she says 
 it would harm her position if people knew about 
 them, but I am certain mummie wouldn't mind, 
 and if she comes to live with us, as I hope, I 
 shall persuade mummie to help them. I think 
 they must be ungrateful beasts though, from 
 what she says; but she is fond of them all the 
 same, and gives all her money to keep her poor 
 sister. Isn't that being a real heroine?" 
 
 Catherine's heart began to throb as she deci- 
 phered these words, but she read to the end of 
 the letter before letting herself dwell upon their 
 significance. 
 
 For Mme. Minart's full and free communica- 
 tions regarding her past and present career had 
 included no mention of her relations living close 
 to the Crystal Palace. On the contrary, she 
 had, more than once, expressly and pathetically 
 stated that she was alone in the world. 
 
 Catherine took the forlorn and sobbing Lily 
 suddenly into her arms. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 311 
 
 '*0h, my little Lily," she murmured, flushed 
 and trembling with excitement, **if you have 
 put the clue into our hands after all! Listen, 
 darling, I must dress at once and go downstairs 
 to see Uncle David, who was to be here at nine. 
 Promise me that you will not say one word about 
 Philippa's letter to any one but me." 
 
 **I am not likely to say a word to any one. 
 I didn't want to tell you," said Lily aggrieved; 
 but she was flattered too, that her letter should 
 be so very important. 
 
 David Moore arrived in Belgrave Square with 
 military exactitude as the clock struck nine, and 
 was ushered into the morning room, where he 
 found Catherine awaiting him. 
 
 She had copied out in her own clear writing 
 the passage in Philippa's letter relating to Mme. 
 Minart, and she handed it to him without delay, 
 watching his expression anxiously as he read it 
 twice rapidly over. 
 
 "Have you mentioned this to any one?" 
 ''Not a soul. I thought you would take it 
 round to Scotland Yard yourself." 
 
 **I would rather see Mme. Minart first." 
 "Would it not put her on her guard? Oh, 
 David, think!" she said, trembling. "Indeed, 
 she is a very artful woman, and — forgive 
 me, but she convinced you of her honesty before. 
 A man is so easily taken in," said poor Catherine; 
 
312 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 for, though she was ready to regard with awe 
 the superiority of the masculine intellect, she 
 could not divest herself of the conviction which 
 lurks in the hearts of the most simple and candid 
 of women — that the cleverest man on earth is 
 no match for a woman bent on deception. 
 
 "You have a right to reproach me," said 
 David calmly, "but she will not take me in twice, 
 Catherine. I now share all your suspicions. 
 She has deceived me, for she told me she was 
 quite alone in the world. She has also made 
 this false statement to the police. I believe this 
 letter would justify her arrest on suspicion; but, 
 however that may be, it puts a weapon into 
 our hands. Now listen" — he paused, collected 
 himself, and spoke briefly: "our object is to find 
 Philippa as quickly as possible, and if Mme. Mi- 
 nart knows where she is, she can help us a great 
 deal more effectively than any one else. There- 
 fore I suggest that you go quietly and bring her 
 to me here, and leave me to try first persuasion 
 and then threats. If I fail this time, I send to 
 Scotland Yard, and hand her over to the author- 
 ities, taking care she has no opportunity of warn- 
 ing her relatives in the meantime. If I succeed, 
 I will not lose sight of her for a moment — but 
 the fewer people we take into our confidence 
 until we know" — his eyes darkened — "where 
 Philippa is and what has happened during this 
 past week, the better." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 313 
 
 Mme. Minart obeyed Catherine's summons 
 without delay, and attended Colonel Moore in 
 the morning room with alacrity. 
 
 Her appearance was attractive as usual; her 
 black dress the perfection of neatness, with a 
 glossy turned-down collar and a smart white 
 bow to relieve the darkness of her brown throat. 
 
 Her hat she would have described truly as 
 tres chic, for that too was turned up at one side 
 with another bewitching bow, which rested on 
 her raven hair, and contrasted with her bright 
 dark eyes and olive complexion. 
 
 ''M. le Colonel desires to speak to me?'* she 
 said very sweetly. "I am always at the service 
 of M. le Colonel. I was about to walk round 
 the square with Miladi's maid, to exercise Miladi's 
 pug. You know, monsieur, that I go not any- 
 where alone? No. There is an espionage — sur- 
 veillance. I am suspected of I know not what. 
 Not by Monsieur le Colonel, hien entendu, but by 
 others." 
 
 'That is true," said David sternly. "When 
 others suspected you, I believed." 
 
 "It was like you," she sighed. "Do you think 
 I am insensible? Believe me, I am grateful." 
 
 She stole a glance at his face, but the gloom 
 of his expression frightened her. She cast down 
 her eyes and waited. 
 
 "How much gratitude you felt for my credulity 
 I cannot tell, but that you have deceived me I 
 
314 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 have just learnt," said David. "I do not wonder, 
 madame, that you cannot look me in the face.'* 
 
 Mme. Minart moved uneasily, but she did not 
 raise her eyes. 
 
 '* There may be more reasons than one," she 
 murmured, half softly, half defiantly, **why 
 a woman should not care to — to look Colonel 
 Moore in the face." 
 
 It was now David's turn to feel uneasy; for 
 he recalled Mrs. Ralt's observations, and became 
 exceedingly embarrassed at the recollection. 
 
 "There can be no good reason but one," he 
 said rather hurriedly. ''And I prefer to believe 
 that one. It is that Mme. Minart is ashamed 
 to have deceived a friend." 
 
 **A friend! Are you my friend?" Mme. Mi- 
 nart's voice was reproachful though sweet. 
 
 "Have I not proved myself a friend?" said 
 David, reddening. "You said just now that 
 when others suspected you, I did not." 
 
 "Ah, yes; that is true," she sighed. "But 
 you are noble — ^generous." Her eyes no longer 
 avoided him, but softened and brightened with 
 a very eloquent expression of feeling; the colour 
 glowed in her olive face, and she looked exceed- 
 ingly handsome. 
 
 ' * If you thought so, why did you not trust me ? " 
 
 "I do not know what you mean," she said, in 
 some agitation. "Of what do you suspect me?" 
 
 "I do not suspect, I know. You told me you 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 315 
 
 were alone in the world, without relatives, without 
 family. And it was not true. You have a sister — 
 a nephew — ^whom you help, who are, at all events, 
 partly dependent upon you — ^who live close to 
 you here in London." 
 
 Mme. Minart turned white. There was a pause, 
 during which David regarded her sternly; then 
 she spoke, but with difficulty, as though her lips 
 were dry. 
 
 "And if I have — if I have denied the existence 
 of these miserables for their own sakes — that 
 they might not be mixed up in this affair — what 
 of that?" she said faintly. 
 
 **That you have done — ^whatever you have 
 done — for their sakes I am willing to believe," 
 said David with quick compassion. "Their de- 
 pendence upon you supplies the motive. You 
 wanted money. There could be no other reason. 
 Mme. Minart, what have you done with Philippa?" 
 
 "You desire me to accuse myself that you 
 may hand me over to the police — ^to the prison," 
 she said with angry tears. 
 
 "Madame," said David curtly, **I am very 
 little used to dealing with blackmailers. If you 
 were a man I would have the truth out of you 
 first, and then hand you over to the police without 
 a moment's hesitation. But you are a woman, 
 and, rightly or wrongly, I cannot bring myself 
 to be harsh to a woman." 
 
 She raised her dark eyes at this and looked at 
 
316 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 him through her tears; perhaps she thought the 
 pleading sweetness of that look might soften him 
 further yet. She knew that she was handsome, 
 and she had discovered that the Colonel was 
 susceptible to beauty and humility. 
 
 Whether this were so or not, David drew a step 
 closer to her side and spoke more gently. 
 
 *'Why did you not tell me the truth the other 
 day, and save us all these days of suspense and 
 misery ? If you had told me you were in trouble 
 I would have helped you." 
 
 **You would have helped me?" she said almost 
 inaudibly. *'How could I know that?" 
 
 "I am not a rich man," said David, ''but I 
 have enough and to spare — to help a woman who 
 is in trouble." 
 
 *' Monsieur," she said indignantly, ''what would 
 you have thought if I had asked you for money?" 
 
 David looked at her steadily. "No evil — and 
 you know it. You, who tell me you are a judge 
 of character, know it perfectly." 
 
 "Yes," she said, drooping her dead, "you are 
 right, I know it." 
 
 Then she sat still and cried, putting up her 
 slender gloved hands to hide her face. 
 
 Like most men, David disliked exceedingly the 
 sight of a woman's tears. He stood for a moment 
 regarding Mme. Minart impatiently, and wonder- 
 ing how he should proceed. It was now almost 
 certain that the existence of her relatives had 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 317 
 
 everything to do with the disappearance of Phil- 
 ippa,and that their discovery, when this clue should 
 be placed in the hands of the police, was only a 
 question of time. But he felt the advisability 
 of conciliating the Frenchwoman, and persuad- 
 ing her if possible to tell him the truth at once. 
 The mention of the nephew had filled David 
 with vague anxiety, and not a little anger. What 
 had happened to Philippa? He felt that if he 
 could, with Mme. Minart's aid, bring her home 
 at once, secretly and safely, without further 
 police intervention, it would save poor Catherine 
 something — a great deal. 
 
 He said **Poor Catherine!" to himself, scarcely 
 daring to think of Philippa at all; for the bare 
 thought of the woman-child — of her beauty and 
 helplessness — the victim of blackmailers — a pris- 
 oner or worse — drove him to fury, and of what 
 avail was fury now? 
 
 Mme. Minart must have divined something of 
 his feelings when she glanced suddenly up, and 
 saw his dark face lowering over her. 
 
 "What have you done with the child?" said 
 David, answering the look with anger in his 
 voice. 
 
 "Ah, monsieur," she said, putting up her 
 hand, "do not take that tone. Threats are noth- 
 ing to me — ^nothing. But when you speak gently 
 to me — ^when you talk of being my friend — or 
 helping me," she sobbed, "it is then I can deny 
 
318 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 you nothing. I am a fool, I know it. But a 
 woman is sometimes the slave of her feelings, 
 of her impulses." 
 
 "Help me now," he said, "and I swear that 
 whatever you have done I will stand your friend. 
 Look at me and believe me." 
 
 "Believe you!" she said passionately. "Could 
 I doubt you ? You said truly that I was too 
 good a judge of human nature." 
 
 "Take me to Philippa." 
 
 "Wait — wait — let me think." She put her 
 hand to her forehead, but he took it and held it. 
 
 "I do not want you to think. To think means 
 with you to plot and scheme and plan," he said 
 imperiously. "Look at me, and tell me now, this 
 moment, the truth." 
 
 "You will stand my friend?" 
 
 "I have said so." 
 
 * ' What does that mean ? ' ' 
 
 "That I will help you to the best of my power 
 to escape punishment for what you have done, 
 if you will help me at once to bring Philippa, safe 
 and sound, home to her mother — that I will give 
 you a sum of money — what you want, in reason 
 — I suppose it is money you want " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I want money; but there is some- 
 thing dearer to a woman than money. You de- 
 spise me," she sobbed. 
 
 "No, no," said David, "I will believe you 
 were tempted by them." 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 319 
 
 "I was tempted, but not as you think. It was 
 my plan, my scheme; they are incapable — 
 helpless — they have no brains. Oh, what am I 
 saying? I am betraying myself with every word. 
 I will tell you nothing, nothing here, where every 
 one is my enemy, or a spy on me. If you are 
 my friend, take me away from this place, and I 
 will tell you all." 
 
 "You shall come away at once," said David, 
 and he scrawled a hasty line in his pocket-book. 
 "I will leave a message for her mother." 
 
 "No, no! I trust no woman. What are you 
 writing?" she said, sobbing and suspicious. 
 
 He held it up to her without a word. 
 
 *'Do not take any one into your confidence, I 
 am following up this clue with every hope of com- 
 plete success. Await news. May possibly tele- 
 phone.** 
 
 '' Je vous dem^nde pardon^ monsieur** said 
 Mme. Minart humbly. 
 
 He gave her no time to reflect or resist fur- 
 ther, but rang the bell and desired Pilkington 
 to carry the note, which he sealed, to Catherine, 
 and then he left the house with Mme. Minart, 
 who was still visibly agitated. 
 
 In the square he recognised the detective who 
 was watching the house, and said a word to him. 
 The man nodded and touched his cap. 
 
 "What did you say to that man?" 
 
 "Do you doubt me again? I told him not 
 
320 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 to leave his post — that I woiild be responsible 
 for you." 
 
 *' Where are you going?" 
 
 **To Victoria Station." 
 
 **You know where she is? Then why — why 
 did you ask my help?" she said faintly. 
 
 "I do not know the exact address," said 
 David calmly. 
 
 She took a slip of paper from her purse and 
 handed it to him. 
 
 "You will see that I trust you." 
 
 **Is this your sister*s house?" 
 
 "It is called hers." 
 
 "IsPhilippawithher?" 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 "And safe— well?" 
 
 "You think only of her," said Mme. Minart, 
 bursting into fresh tears. "She is strong as a 
 lion. How should her health have suffered in 
 one short week? My sister is not a monster." 
 
 She sobbed so violently that the passers-by 
 turned their heads and looked indignantly at 
 David. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake control yourself. I will 
 ask you no more questions," he said impatiently. 
 
 "I will tell you all — all another time, but not 
 now. Have pity on me now," she sobbed; "you 
 will be with her, monsieur, in an hour. What 
 more can you ask?" 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 The cab passed rows and rows of suburban villas, 
 standing each in its own narrow plot of ground; 
 some old, some newly built, some unfinished 
 and surrounded by scaffolding and stacks of 
 bricks and heaps of mortar; then came eligible 
 building sites, already partitioned off with palings, 
 each to be let or sold, and finally a shady road, 
 where some half-dozen shabby houses of a much 
 earlier date stood, each in its own garden, in the 
 shelter of well-grown trees and screened by tall 
 straggling hedges and high walls of yellow brick. 
 
 Before the gate of the last house the driver 
 stopped, and, jumping from his box, opened the 
 door. 
 
 "I hope you'll give me a job back, sir?" he 
 said civilly, to David; "this is the other end of 
 nowhere; you ought to have gone to the low- 
 level station to begin with " 
 
 "All right," said David; "wait here." 
 
 An overgrown path led past tangled borders, 
 
 where roses strove with nettles, and lilies were 
 
 choked with bindweed. 
 
 "We have no gardener," said Mme. Minart, 
 21 321 
 
322 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 in subdued tones of apology as they reached the 
 front door. 
 
 Crooked and broken blinds flapped against 
 windows cracked, dirty, and curtainless; the 
 paint had long ago blistered or peeled off the 
 woodwork. 
 
 "It is so cheap — they let us have it for almost 
 nothing," she faltered, as though she were looking 
 at the place anew with his eyes; "the last years 
 of the lease — and it is to be pulled down. We 
 have paid no attention to the front of the house, 
 it is beyond our power to mend — ^and it faces 
 north." 
 
 David tugged at a rusty handle which responded 
 with the echoing clang of a bell rung in an empty 
 house. 
 
 "Is there any one here?** he said; "it looks 
 as though no one were here.*' His glance was 
 so full of gloomy suspicion that she quailed, and 
 he took her suddenly by the arm. 
 
 "Are you deceiving me again? Are you playing 
 me some trick? If you are *' 
 
 "No, no," she said, trembling. "Ah, monsieur, 
 believe me, I cannot bear your anger. They are 
 here, indeed they are here. But they live on the 
 other side, in only one or two rooms. We have 
 so little furniture; but the garden at the back is 
 good for my sister, who is ill. Come round to the 
 other side. You have no need to hold me thus. 
 How could I get away from you, and did I not 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 323 
 
 bring you here myself?" she said with a laugh 
 that was half a sob. 
 
 But he held her, nevertheless — so full of doubt 
 and anger that he scarce knew that he did so — 
 as they went round to the side of the house, 
 where a green door in a wall shut off the front 
 drive from the garden. She sought and found 
 a rusty key which was hidden in a convenient 
 nook, unlocked and pushed open the creaking 
 door. 
 
 Once on the south side of the house they had 
 no need to ring, for a French window stood open 
 imder a wooden balcony; they entered an empty 
 room which had once evidently been the drawing- 
 room of the villa, for the marble mantelpiece 
 was elegantly carved, and the ceiling wreathed 
 with painted flowers. 
 
 Mme. Minart hurried him into the narrow 
 hall and gave a tremulous call. 
 
 "Eugenie!" 
 
 The name echoed forlornly up the carpetless 
 stair. 
 
 She opened the opposite door. 
 
 The room which now offered itself to their 
 view was furnished plainly as a living-room. There 
 was a small highly polished cooking stove, an 
 easy chair, and a round table with a cloth. 
 
 It was spotlessly clean and in perfect order, 
 but had the air of not having been recently used, 
 and something in its aspect appeared to strike 
 
324 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 Mme. Minart with uneasiness. She glanced 
 around, as though missing famiHar objects. 
 
 "It looks as though some one had left. As if 
 things had been folded up and put away,'* said 
 David. 
 
 "How can she have left? I tell you she is ill. 
 It is for that I brought her here. For the air; for 
 the garden," said Mme. Minart. "She does not 
 stir from this place — my sister. She must be 
 upstairs." 
 
 She hurried out, and David, following, caught 
 sight of a letter conspicuously placed. 
 
 He took it up and held it out. 
 
 "This is addressed to you." 
 
 Simultaneously Mme. Minart perceived in the 
 little dark vestibule a small heap of letters and 
 advertisements, which lay upon the floor below 
 the slit in the door where a letter-box should 
 have been. 
 
 She gathered them up in a dazed way, and 
 brought them to the light, with a kind of stifled 
 exclamation. 
 
 "I do not understand," she said; "wait a 
 moment, wait a moment. But this is the letter I 
 sent her, and it has not been opened. What 
 has happened?" 
 
 "Read this one and see," said David, im- 
 patiently, and he gave her the note addressed to 
 herself. 
 
 She tore open the envelope, took out a half- 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 325 
 
 sheet of foreign note-paper, covered with fine 
 French writing. 
 
 When she had read it, every vestige of colour 
 faded from her face and lips; she looked at him 
 with horror unspeakable in her eyes. 
 
 ''Bon Dieul qu'est-ce que fat fait, qu'est-ce que 
 fat fait ? " she muttered. 
 
 **What have you done?'* cried David, for she 
 stood motionless, as though struck with horror. 
 "For God's sake tell me the worst and be done 
 with it. Where have they taken her? What has 
 happened to her?" 
 
 ''They — they have not taken her," said Mme. 
 Minart, with dry lips; "she — she brought them a 
 letter — from me — that morning. The letter told 
 my sister to — to detain her — that I was coming 
 that day, in a few hours. And my sister did not 
 wait — she did not wait," screamed Mme. Minart; 
 "she went away and never got my letter saying 
 I was not coming. Oh, that I should have trusted 
 to a fool — a coward!" 
 
 "What do I care about your sister — where 
 is Philippa?" he said. 
 
 She put the letter into his hand and ran to the 
 staircase. 
 
 "Let me go first. Oh, my God! let me go 
 first — if she is — there," gasped Mme. Minart. 
 "It will kill me — and I deserve — I deserve — to 
 die." 
 
 David glanced at the scrawl in his hand, and 
 
326 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 the glance told him nothing. He did not wait 
 to decipher it, but thrust it into his pocket, and 
 followed Mme. Minart as she hurried, without 
 pausing to look back, to the third or attic floor 
 of the villa. 
 
 Here was a single door facing the stairs, and 
 before it she paused, and pointed out to him with 
 a ghastly expression that it was heavily bolted 
 upon the outside. 
 
 She put her hand upon the bolt, and her strength 
 suddenly failed her; she leant against the wall, 
 fainting, and it was David who drew back the 
 bolt. 
 
 "Is any one here?" he said, and pushing open 
 the door, entered. 
 
 The room was a large, bare attic, with a sloping 
 roof and a barred opaque skylight. Opposite 
 him a door, partly open, displaying a small 
 bath-room; in the comer next that door stood a 
 low narrow bed, and beside the bed, a chair, 
 holding a water- jug and an empty tumbler. 
 
 David's heart seemed to contract, and for a 
 brief second a mist of horror darkened his eyes. 
 
 "A blue dress and a black straw hat," he 
 found himself muttering — "a blue dress and a 
 black straw hat. Oh, Catherine — Catherine " 
 
 The hat lay on the table, and on the bed a figure 
 in a blue dress — motionless, as though sleeping. 
 The clearly cut face on the pillow, so wasted as 
 to be almost unrecognisable, was Philippa's face. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 327 
 
 David turned and looked at Mme. Minart as 
 she stood shivering in the doorway, and at his 
 look she cowered afresh and fell upon her knees, 
 sobbing violently. 
 
 With stem set face he crossed the room and 
 bent over the motionless figure. 
 
 She saw him start, and almost screamed aloud, 
 but restrained herself in terror; for Philippa's 
 great blue eyes opened, and her voice uttered 
 David's name faintly, but quite clearly. 
 
 "Yes, Philippa; yes, my darling," he said, 
 in a voice that trembled with all the tenderness 
 and wrath and pity that was pent up in his great 
 heart. *'It is all right now. I am here. I have 
 come to take care of you." 
 
 He knelt by the bed, and took the transparent 
 hand. She seemd to smile, and closed her eyes. 
 
 There was not a tinge of colour in the sunken 
 face; the hollows of the eyes were enormously 
 enlarged, the features pinched and sharpened — 
 her deathly aspect filled him with terror. 
 
 Mme. Minart uttered a suppressed call, and Da- 
 vid rose from his knees and went to the doorway. 
 
 **For God's sake pull yourself together," he 
 whispered, passionately; "fetch me some brandy 
 and send the cabman for a doctor. Don't lose a 
 minute. I can't leave her. It's your best chance 
 to undo the work you've done." 
 
 "I never meant it — not this — not this," gasped 
 Mme. Minart, but her white despair had given 
 
328 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 place to hope, and her native energy shone 
 through her tears. *'I will go — I will fly — but 
 listen — she is alive, and though she has not eaten 
 all these days, there has been water — it is laid 
 on — there — one can live many days with water, 
 thank God. Look, monsieur, she must not see 
 me, she must not have any emotion. It is food — 
 milk that she wants — not the doctor. Oh, my 
 God! wait but a moment, I will bring you milk, 
 brandy — you may trust me now. I would die to 
 bring her back to life.'* 
 
 She sped with noiseless haste downstairs, and 
 a moment later she had despatched the cabman 
 in one direction, while she herself ran in another 
 to the back door of the nearest house, and begged 
 a little milk and other necessaries. 
 
 In less than five minutes she stood again, 
 breathless, on the threshold of the attic, with a 
 glass of milk and a flask of brandy in her hands, 
 some bread, and a teaspoon. 
 
 "Give her no more, no more than a spoonful, a 
 very little . And then — ^wait — ^wait , ' ' she whispered 
 vehemently, and wrung her hands as he took it 
 across to the bedside. **No bread yet — I am 
 afraid. Oh, that I might do it myself; but I 
 dare not. The sight of me might kill her if she 
 knows; yet what can a man do for her — and I 
 here, who know all that should be done." 
 
 But David was by no means so destitute of 
 nursing experience as she had imagined, and 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 329 
 
 when she had watched him administer a teaspoon- 
 ful of the nourishment, she grew calmer, and, 
 bethinking herself, ran downstairs again. 
 
 David sat beside Philippa, watching the death- 
 like face, and praying dumbly that the doctor 
 would hasten his coming; for he could hardly 
 feel any pulse at all in the little wasted wrist he 
 held. 
 
 At intervals he administered a teaspoonful 
 of the milk and brandy, and hoped that some 
 was swallowed; but he could discern no motion 
 of the throat, and she seemed unconscious or 
 sleeping. 
 
 Once the blue eyes opened again and were 
 fixed in wonder upon his face. The perfect calm 
 of the expression made him at one moment hope- 
 ful, at another fearful. 
 
 Was it only that she was relieved to know that 
 help had come, or was she resigned to death ? 
 
 He forced himself to smile reassuringly in return 
 for that wondering look; but this time she gave 
 no answering smile, only sank away, as it were, 
 into another death-like slumber. 
 
 He had time for many thoughts as he sat 
 there, holding her hand in his; not daring to 
 move, forced to inaction, while he longed fever- 
 ishly to be despatching messengers hither and 
 thither, to hasten the coming of help, of the 
 doctor, of her mother. 
 
 But he was obliged to trust all to the woman 
 
330 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 who had brought Philippa, whether of fell design 
 or not, to this pass; and to remain at his post 
 in silence through the long bright hours of the 
 summer morning. 
 
 He had time for many thoughts. 
 
 He saw, as in a vision, the beautiful girl, 
 scarcely more than a child, as he had seen her 
 first on the cedar-shadowed lawn of the old- 
 fashioned Devonshire garden, and then, again, 
 upon the sea-shore, leaning against the rocks 
 with her white feet lapped by the blue water, 
 and her bright hair blowing in the wind. He 
 thought of the half shy, half stately maiden, 
 moving later through the London ball-room, 
 distinguished by her noble features and bearing, 
 and by that unmistakable bloom of country 
 freshness. ''Like a rose," thought David, re- 
 flecting that this ancient simile was after all 
 the best. 
 
 And now the motionless, waxen face lay on the 
 pillow, seeming that of an older woman alto- 
 gether than the maiden Philippa; so sunken, so 
 changed was its outline, so sharply prominent 
 the ivory features. 
 
 What days and nights of lonely anguish and 
 suffering had this child lived through, to be 
 changed thus? He dared not think. 
 
 As David sat there the very aspect of the room 
 which had been Philippa's prison told him a 
 story that filled him with unavailing fury, and 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 331 
 
 brought tears of mingled rage and pity to his 
 eyes. 
 
 It was almost an empty room, containing only 
 a cheap washstand, a chair or two, a few pegs 
 driven into the wall, and the deal table whereon 
 lay the hat which had been described in so many 
 useless advertisements. In the wall a little 
 square opening showed a small box-lift, just 
 large enough to hold a ver>^ small tray ; but though 
 the tray was there, it was empty. 
 
 There was a fireplace, but no fire-irons. One 
 of the pegs had been worked out of its place, and 
 there were marks round the barred skylight 
 which showed that Philippa had made frantic 
 unavailing efforts to force it open; the broken 
 peg lay on the floor beneath. The leg of a chair 
 had been used as a hammer, and the stout door 
 of the attic was battered all over with marks ; the 
 poor child had made some efforts to break out 
 of her prison before she grew too weak or too 
 hopeless. 
 
 He tried to banish the vision which would 
 rise before him of Philippa alone, crying, praying, 
 starving, throughout that long and terrible week; 
 of hope giving place to despair; of her dragging 
 herself from her bed to fill the water-jug for the 
 last time, and sinking back at last resigned to 
 die; too weak, too exhausted to struggle further, 
 her face so plainly betrayed that she had reached 
 that final stage of meekness. 
 
332 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 The thought was so unbearable that he started 
 to his feet, feeling the silence and waiting intol- 
 erable, when her life was trembling in the balance. 
 
 "Cousin David." 
 
 ''Philippa, my little Philippa. Oh, thank 
 God! your voice sounds stronger." 
 
 "Don't go," she said feebly, and tried to lift 
 her hand. 
 
 "I am not going, I will never leave you," 
 said David, almost incoherent between joy and 
 anxiety. He kissed the little hand, and about 
 his heart there crept a sudden warmth and passion 
 of tenderness for the helpless creature whom 
 it had been given to him to rescue and succour, 
 and who seemed in turn to cling to him. 
 
 "Try — try to swallow a little milk, Philippa. 
 There, there. Why, that is right and brave, my 
 darling. You've taken the whole spoonful, and 
 another. Wait only one moment,, we mustn't 
 go too fast." 
 
 He trembled with hope, perceiving that the 
 hollow eyes were fixed eagerly upon the bread. 
 There was a little sound outside, and the frail 
 fingers he held seemed to tighten their hold. 
 
 "It is the doctor at last," said David, in great 
 relief. * ' You will not mind, Philippa ? ' ' 
 
 But the blue eyes were turned to the door, 
 and it was not the doctor who came softly into 
 the room, but Catherine, in her black gown, 
 with her pale face composed and smiling. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 333 
 
 She was carrying a cup and tray, which she 
 put down on the Httle table, on her way to 
 Philippa's bedside. 
 
 "Mamma," said Philippa. 
 
 *I am here, my darling!" 
 
 David held his breath, terrified of the possible 
 effects of emotion upon Philippa in her weakness ; 
 but to his relief she displayed none, and seemed 
 to take her mother's entry as the most natural 
 thing in the world, and Catherine was so guarded 
 or had been so carefully prepared that she be- 
 trayed no sign of the shock that her child's 
 appearance must have given. 
 
 David remembered with some shame that he 
 had thought indulgently of Catherine's weakness 
 and softness of character. 
 
 There was no weakness to be discerned in the 
 woman whose arm at present supported her 
 child, and whose steady hand administered nour- 
 ishment from the cup she bade him hold. There 
 was no doubt now of the eagerness with which 
 it was swallowed. 
 
 "No more for the present," said Catherine, 
 beneath her breath, and she signed to him to 
 remove the cup. 
 
 He saw Philippa fall asleep more naturally 
 in her mother's soft arms, before he stole away 
 in obedience to another look from Catherine, 
 which seemed to bid him leave her alone with 
 her child. 
 
334 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 "She won't want me any more, now," he 
 thought, sadly, and then was surprised at his 
 own sadness; for how was it possible that Philippa 
 should want him, comparatively a stranger as he 
 was, now that her mother was by her side ? 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Outside the door of the attic David found a lit- 
 tle valise and handbag, and a pile of clean warm 
 linen and blankets beside a small table covered 
 with necessaries for a sick-room ; even to a bunch 
 of roses, evidently gathered from the neglected 
 garden and arranged in a glass of water. He 
 realised that Mme. Minart had been working 
 while he had been watching. 
 
 The thought of her brought a frown to his 
 brow as he descended. 
 
 He found her in the living-room, bending over 
 a bubbling saucepan on the cooking-stove. 
 
 A small fire was burning, the kettle was singing, 
 and the window stood wide-open to the brightness 
 of the summer day. 
 
 Mme. Minart had removed her outdoor things 
 and donned a snowy apron. She looked so 
 orderly, so trim, so busy, that it was not possible 
 to think of her as a criminal; but when she per- 
 ceived David's tall figure in the doorway, she 
 uttered a little cry and clasped her hands. 
 
 "She is better! I watched through the door; 
 she took the warm egg and milk I had prepared. 
 
 335 
 
336 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 She will recover, monsieur; believe me, she will 
 recover." 
 
 **By God's grace," said David, roughly. **Did 
 you send for the doctor, as I bade you?" 
 
 "I have sent. But I sent first for her mother," 
 said Mme. Minart, breathlessly. "What could the 
 doctor do more than we have done? I bade the 
 cabman telephone. I wrote it down who he was 
 to ask for, and the message, and gave him a 
 sovereign. He had seemed stupid, but when he 
 saw the gold he proved quick and willing. He 
 telephoned in your name, and it was Philippa's 
 mother who answered; she was waiting as you 
 bade. He told her the child had been found, 
 and was ill; that she was to say nothing to any 
 one, but to take your motor and come. I prom- 
 ised him more money if he should be discreet 
 and quick. He brought me all I wanted, and 
 then he went for the doctor, who was out; then 
 to another further off, and so on. At last we 
 have a message one is coming. When Lady 
 Adelstane came, I told her — she is very quick, 
 she understood. I fell on my knees and told her," 
 said Mme. Minart, suppressing a sob. "She sent 
 the motor back to town to fetch the maid, Roper, 
 and bade the chauffeur hold his tongue. The 
 cabman had already got most of the things that 
 are wanted." 
 
 "You thought of everything," he said, mo- 
 mentarily softened. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 337 
 
 ** Everything that could help to undo — what 
 I had done — in my folly and senselessness," she 
 said trembling. "You have read my letter?" 
 
 **What letter? How do you suppose I should 
 have time to think of your letters, at such a 
 moment?" 
 
 "You must, then, believe that I am a monster/' 
 she said, bursting into tears. "Monsieur, I have 
 been foolish and wicked. I was tempted as you 
 said, but not to this. Believe me, you are not 
 more filled with horror, with grief, than I." 
 
 "I am in no mood to listen to your self- 
 reproaches after what I have seen upstairs," 
 he said sternly. 
 
 His expression recalled the look he had given 
 her after the first shock of beholding Philippa; 
 and she trembled now as she had trembled then, 
 but without losing her self-command. 
 
 "Yet you promised to stand my friend," she 
 said, faintly. 
 
 "I said I would stand your friend," said David, 
 gloomily, "if you brought me to her, and by 
 God's grace you did so — just in time. But if I 
 had known what you had done " 
 
 "But I never meant to do it. Ah, can't you 
 see it was a mistake — a dreadful mistake?" she 
 said, white to the lips, as she stood beside the 
 table facing him. 
 
 "Aye, a mistake that, for aught we know yet» 
 may cost her life," he said bitterly, "and might 
 
338 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 have cost her reason. Who knows how far she 
 w^U ever be herself again, if she recovers at all?'* 
 
 **She will recover, monsieur — she will recover. 
 And it is not mercy I ask, but justice. I deserve 
 all you can desire to inflict upon me," she said 
 with a certain dignity. "But my sister's letter 
 will prove to you that, though I am guilty, I am 
 not so guilty as you believe." 
 
 David pulled the letter out of his pocket, but 
 her impatience caused her to explain the contents 
 more quickly than he could decipher the faint 
 flourishing scratches of the writing. 
 
 * * Monsieur, it is from my sister ; she is a widow, 
 ill, weak, poor — and her son is a vaurien. Always 
 since his birth has he been a trouble and expense. 
 But they are all I have in the world — which 
 will explain — I do what I can. Always he lost 
 his situation in France; his father's family, who 
 are also poor, will do no more for him. At last 
 I found something in London " She hesi- 
 tated and drooped her head. "Of what matter 
 if I tell you now? The situation of which I speak 
 was a servant's. He was a valet-de-chamhre — the 
 work suited him, the pay was not bad, and he 
 had but little time to trouble his mother, while yet 
 he could from time to time come and see her. I 
 had also the happiness, w^hich has turned out 
 no happiness, to have my sister here, where for 
 the sake of her health it was better she should live 
 than in London. I found this house a bargain 
 incredible; it was not worth the owner's while 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 339 
 
 to look for a tenant who would ask for re- 
 pairs. There are now but two years to run; 
 and the house has a bad name" — she dropped 
 her voice. 
 
 * ' What do you mean ? ' * 
 
 "That room upstairs," she said, faltering, 
 **had been occupied by a former tenant, who 
 was at times mentally afflicted, who — but of 
 what use, monsieur, to enter into the history 
 of a dead man? My sister, who is nervous, found 
 out the story, though she speaks but little Eng- 
 lish — and reproached me. She is of those who 
 reproach always and are grateful never," said 
 Mme. Minart bitterly; *'but what matter? I 
 have adored my sister, monsieur; shall it end 
 because she grows ill and unreasonable? On the 
 contrary, I comfort myself with the hope that she 
 may recover, and be once more to me the angel of 
 former days. I took the house in her name; I 
 spent my savings upon these things that you see 
 — that are mine" — she waved her hand rather 
 proudly round the room — **but you will under- 
 stand, monsieur, that I did not give them my 
 address. I would not trust Jules, who might have 
 visited me — and my sister entreated not to know 
 lest he should question her. She could refuse him 
 nothing. Ah, monsieur! when he was little all 
 went well ; I made money, I helped them, we were 
 happy. But since Jules grew up there has been 
 no comfort. Whatever I have given — it has never 
 been enough." 
 
340 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 In the midst of his anger David pitied this 
 woman, and she was quick to observe the soften- 
 ing of his expression. 
 
 **Ah, monsieur," she said, passionately, '*do 
 not beheve me so bad! I have worked hard 
 all my life. I have been honest — that is, enough 
 honest — all my life; and reflect to what it has 
 led me. Poverty, struggles, anxiety always, 
 sometimes despair; and my sister, loved always, 
 whose faults arise but from her malady, dying 
 before my eyes. When they had been settled 
 here two years, my situation, where I had made 
 incredible efforts to please, failed me. I tasted 
 for the first time the horror of being without 
 occupation. I said to myself then, "You who 
 are clever, who are full of resource, why can you 
 not make your fortune with one coup f You who 
 have brains, will you starve among fools because 
 you are afraid to use them?" I do not defend 
 myself. I tell you the truth. It was thus I argued. 
 Then I obtained this post in Belgrave Square. 
 But the thought was ever present with me of 
 the time when I should no longer be able to 
 please — of the moment when my sister's illness, 
 which is in our family, might also be mine. My 
 father and mother died thus, and my little 
 brother." 
 
 He could not refrain from a word and look of 
 sympathy; but she hurried on, scarcely speaking 
 above a whisper. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 341 
 
 "Miladi boasted always of the expectations 
 of this young girl, so precious to a great family, 
 and I thought, if one could hide her — this treas- 
 ure — for a little while, what reward would they 
 not offer to get her back? Then I thought of 
 that room — ^how easy it would be to keep her 
 there — how solitary the house — ^how that no one 
 knew of my sister. I went to see her and I talked 
 of it to her. We agreed it would be very easy. 
 I told her the reward would be large, and spoke 
 of a fortune for Jules, of a house and garden in 
 our own country. But we had no thought, no 
 wish, to harm Philippa." 
 
 ** No wish to harm her, and you would send 
 her to the house where this scoundrel lived 
 with his sick mother? A young girl, helpless — 
 undefended!" 
 
 "My faith, monsieur, had there been the pos- 
 sibility of an encounter between those two, it is 
 Jules whom I should have pitied!" said Mme. 
 Minart, scornfully. "She has a character, that 
 young girl. She is strong of mind and body. 
 What would she have had to do with him — weak, 
 sickly, small, and a coward? He would but have 
 aroused her ridicule, her contempt. Besides, 
 he has but few holidays. He was not likely to 
 be at home. Ah, monsieur, believe me, I had no 
 designs of this kind when I persuaded Philippa 
 to come here; I believed she would be as safe 
 in the care of my sister as in her mother's house." 
 
342 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 * * How did you persuade her to come here ? '* 
 * ' I won her affection and gained her confidence. 
 Miladi tired of her company and she was always 
 with me. Then I made my plan. I told her the 
 secret of my home, and when we went to the 
 Crystal Palace I took her there that she might 
 know the way. But yet I hesitated. Then 
 came suddenly the news of the death. When I 
 met Roper on the stairs and she told me this, 
 the morning after the ball, I saw that my oppor- 
 tunity would be gone. That she would leave 
 London; that I might be left behind. Of what 
 use to trust to the affection, the promises of a 
 child? She would find a thousand flatterers now 
 where she had but one, and forget me in her 
 new importance. I took my resolution in haste. 
 I persuaded Roper not to go to her room, and 
 secretly I went myself and woke her. I told her 
 that I had bad news; that my sister was in 
 trouble, that a word from me would save her, 
 and that Miladi would not let me go. I beg of 
 her in the name of our friendship to take a let- 
 ter and give it into my sister's own hands. 
 Or rather," said Mme. Minart, shrugging her 
 shoulders, "I led her to make this offer, poor 
 child, and she did so, on condition she may con- 
 fess her action afterwards to her mother. This 
 soothes her conscience and my fears. I tell her 
 she will be back before she is missed, and beg her 
 to go without waiting to speak to any one. Being 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 343 
 
 young and quick, and with good luck to aid her, 
 she slipped out unobserved while the household 
 is all gaping downstairs round the groom who 
 brings the news, and thus she heard no word of 
 what had happened." 
 
 **Then she does not know — but, of course, 
 she can't know," said David. 
 
 ''She knows nothing. The letter she carried 
 told my sister to put our plan into effect — to 
 detain her as we had agreed by taking her to that 
 room which lent itself so well to our purpose, 
 under pretence of giving her something for me — 
 and to lock her in; and that I would myself be 
 with her before night. This I said because I 
 knew that my sister, though willing to obey 
 me, was weak and frightened, and that the 
 thought of my coming would give her courage to 
 carry out my instructions. But I posted im- 
 mediately, under pretence of running into the 
 square to look for Philippa, a letter for my sister 
 to get that night explaining that I could not 
 come or even write for a few days; repeating 
 my instructions, and adding that I would come 
 as soon as it was possible with safety. I enclosed 
 a note which I told her would calm the appre- 
 hensions of the poor little prisoner, and which w^as 
 to be sent up to her in the dinner-lift with her 
 food, which I even enjoined," said Mme. Minart, 
 w4th a melancholy smile, "was to be of the best, 
 though there was little need to tell my sister that." 
 
344 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 ''What did you write to Philippa?" 
 
 ''Something, you may be sure, of appeal to the 
 romance of a young girl, to her love and her 
 faith in me. I urged her to be patient until I 
 should come and release her. I hinted at a danger 
 from which I had rescued her. Of what matter, 
 since she never received the letter? It was en- 
 closed with this which my sister never received.'* 
 
 "You mean she locked up Philippa as you 
 desired, and, believing you would be there in a 
 few hours, ran away and left her?" 
 
 ' ' The letter you hold will explain. Jules had been 
 turned out of his place and threatened by his mas- 
 ter. He came home in a great fright to his mother, 
 and confessed that there were other things which 
 might be found out now that he had left. In 
 two words, monsieur — he was a thief. She 
 packed their things and resolved to fly to France 
 with him at once. Just as they were starting — 
 came Philippa!" 
 
 "And they determined to go all the same, 
 leaving her helpless, locked up in an empty 
 house?" 
 
 "You see what she says. Feeble, changeable, 
 frightened, and ungrateful as she always was," 
 said Mme. Minart, in vehement scorn. 
 
 Translated, the end of the letter ran thus : 
 
 "/ have done as you told me. But I will have 
 no more to do with your schema. You need not 
 blame Jules, for you are a$ had a$ he, J will not 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 345 
 
 wait for your return or he forced to stay here. We 
 are going at once. My husband's father will not 
 refuse to take us in until something can he decided; 
 write to his house at Aumont." 
 
 ''This she left on the table, and so went; and 
 never got my letter to say I could not come. She is 
 a fool, but she, too, had no intention of doing 
 this great wrong," said Mme. Minart. 
 
 **And how did you ever dream you would 
 get away unwatched? How long did you think 
 it would have been possible to keep the place 
 of her hiding secret?" 
 
 "Monsieur, I had thought of many schemes — 
 of what use to explain them? — of course there is 
 always risk." There was a gleam of excitement 
 in Mme. Minart's eyes which betrayed that the 
 thought of the risk would not have deterred her 
 action. "This I did not foresee, that I should 
 be watched; I thought I had made it impossible 
 that I should be suspected, and also I counted 
 on the fear of scandal. Since a young girl was 
 in question, I believed the family would not 
 permit of advertisement. In all these things 
 my calculations were deceived; and yet, had 
 my sister not failed me, I believe my plan would 
 have succeeded — but for you." 
 
 The colour mounted into her dark face; she 
 stood before him, trembling and suppliant, with 
 her hands nervously clasped. 
 
 "You promised to help — to defend me," she 
 
346 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 said almost inaudibly . ' * I do not ask it, monsieur. 
 I have done enough of wrong to this child. A 
 wrong I never meant, but nevertheless it was 
 I who condemned her to a prison so terrible. 
 I will do what I can to make amends. No breath 
 of doubt must be allowed to rest upon her. I, who 
 speak to you, am not ignorant of the world. 
 The part I have played must for her sake be 
 made known, but " 
 
 David avoided the pleading gaze she fixed 
 upon his face; his expression was very gloomy 
 and undecided. He did not forget his promise, 
 but the thought of the victim of this woman's 
 plot, lying helpless upstairs, caused him to regret 
 it very heartily at this moment. He saw beside 
 endless difficulties in the way of its fulfilment. 
 
 The sudden clang of the door-bell relieved his 
 embarrassment, and, with an instantaneous change 
 of tone and manner, Mme. Minart flew to the door. 
 
 * ' The doctor ! ' * she exclaimed. 
 
 The doctor made his excuses for a delay un- 
 avoidable, listened with sympathetic surprise 
 to David's brief explanation, and was conducted 
 upstairs. 
 
 It seemed to poor Colonel Moore's impatience 
 a very long time before he came down again. 
 He forgot Mme. Minart's very existence, and 
 moved restlessly about the empty house, listening 
 to every sound, and conjecturing a thousand 
 complications to himself. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 347 
 
 "You were only just in time," said the doctor, 
 gravely. 
 
 "But it is in time?" 
 
 "I think and hope so, thanks to her youth 
 and health and a fine constitution. But the 
 exhaustion is excessive — probably result of emo- 
 tion and terror as well as starvation. Good God, 
 what an infamous thing, and this is the twen- 
 tieth century!" The doctor's face worked with 
 indignation. 
 
 Mme. Minart stood motionless by the table 
 listening, a model of neatness and good looks 
 in her black gown, white apron, and snowy collar. 
 The doctor's approving glance noted her in the 
 midst of his emotion, and noted also the order of 
 the room and the dainty muslin curtains of the 
 open window. 
 
 "I hope some one will be brought to book for 
 this. Of course I've read all about the case in 
 the papers. You've given notice to the police? 
 Or can I be of help?" 
 
 "I'm going to settle all about that now," said 
 David. "Is she too weak to be moved ? ' ' 
 
 "Couldn't stand it yet. I'm sending in a 
 trained nurse to assist Lady Adelstane. Skilled 
 nursing is absolutely essential. She shall bring 
 all that is required with her." 
 
 "Everything that is wanted can be sent for," 
 said David. "I'll get my servant down, and an 
 old confidential maid is coming." 
 
348 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 "Aye, so Lady Adelstane told me. A woman 
 who can make beef- tea, and hold her tongue." 
 
 "I make at this moment," said Mme. Minart 
 in a hoarse voice, "with some fillet I have sent for, 
 a bouillon as good as your English servants 
 could cook." 
 
 "I'll be bound it is," said the doctor, drily. 
 "Well, the fewer people about the better. Keep 
 her absolutely quiet. I'm afraid the reporters 
 won't be long finding you out." 
 
 "I'll look after them. We may count on your 
 discretion?" 
 
 "Nobody will get a word out of me. Now I 
 won't delay another moment in finding the nurse. 
 I have given full directions to Lady Adelstane, 
 and she would like you to go up presently." 
 
 David saw him out of the hall-door, and 
 hastened upstairs, where he found Catherine 
 standing by the open door of the attic. 
 
 "She's better, and she has asked for you twice," 
 said the soft voice. 
 
 He wondered at the calm brightness of her face. 
 
 Catherine had her child safe in her own care 
 at last; and there was such peace in the thought, 
 after the agonising suspense of the last eight 
 days, that there was actually no room for anxiety 
 in her heart, though she had been so often anx- 
 ious with far less cause. 
 
 Her mind was tranquil, full of thankfulness 
 and joy. Her child had been given back to her, 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 349 
 
 helpless, needing her utmost care; and that was 
 all that Catherine thought of just now. 
 
 *'Philippa is restless, afraid you had gone away 
 without seeing her again," said Catherine, softly. 
 **You must see her for a moment, but not let 
 her talk. David" — she put her little hand 
 gently into his — ''I cannot speak to you of what 
 you have done now." 
 
 "Not now — ^nor ever," he said. She shook 
 her head and smiled. 
 
 **I can only bear to think," she said without 
 faltering, "of the things of the moment, of what 
 she wants now. And — and, David, I leave it 
 all to you — to tell Lady Sarah and George, and 
 to stop the search. Only let no one come and 
 disturb us here." 
 
 "Leave it all to me," said David. He followed 
 her into the attic as noiselssly as he could, and 
 was astonished by the changes already wrought 
 by Catherine. 
 
 The aspect of the room had been altered as far 
 as possible. The blue dress and black hat were 
 put out of sight, and the high staring barred win- 
 dow with its open ventilator was shaded. The 
 roses stood on the little table, which was now 
 covered with a white cloth. The bed was no 
 longer a tumbled couch, but white and smooth. 
 Philippa rested amid snowy sheets and pillows, 
 with hair softly brushed off a brow refreshed by 
 cool sponging. 
 
350 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 She looked more like herself in spite of the 
 terrible emaciation, and a faint colour showed 
 in her sunken cheeks as David tiptoed into the 
 room. 
 
 *'She wants to thank you," said Catherine, 
 interpreting her look and speaking in a low, 
 cheerful tone. **But I've told her we can't 
 have any talking until to-morrow, so she may 
 just smile at you, and then go to sleep like a good 
 child." 
 
 David took the nerveless hand very gently in 
 his own and bent down and kissed it reverently. 
 
 "You'll make haste and get well, Philippa," 
 he muttered, not knowing very well what to say; 
 and bending again, just caught a little murmur: 
 
 * ' You won't go away ? ' * 
 
 **I should think not," he said, cheerily. "I'm 
 sending for my things, and I'm going to mount 
 guard here day and night, to be at hand in case 
 I'm wanted. And old Roper will be here in a 
 minute or two, you know, ready to make gallons 
 of beef -tea, and all the doctor wants you to have, 
 that you may get quite strong again." 
 
 She tried to smile, but her lips quivered in her 
 weakness and the tears welled into the great blue 
 eyes. David dared not stay; he kissed her hand 
 again and smiled encouragingly, and went away, 
 but this time with a warm feeling of comfort, 
 almost triumph, about his heart; for he could 
 not help feeling that it was to him Philippa 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 361 
 
 looked as her deliverer, and that, though she had 
 her mother, she yet seemed to want him too, a 
 little, after all. 
 
 Downstairs the newly wound clock ticked 
 loudly over the mantelpiece of the bright stove, 
 and the fresh air of the summer afternoon blew 
 in through the wide-open window; but the little 
 sitting-room was empty. 
 
 A sheet of paper, with a weight upon it, was 
 placed conspicuously in the centre of the table. 
 On the paper was written, in a clear and pointed 
 hand: 
 
 " To M. le Colonel Moore. 
 
 ** I go to give notice to the police, and to place 
 myself at their disposal. This will at once relieve 
 you of an embarrassment, and convince you of 
 the sincerity of my regrets. M. Minart." 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 *'0f course I'm not so upset as I was last week," 
 sobbed Augusta. "It's absurd to expect it; 
 one must get over these things with time, or 
 where would any one be? Lady Sarah might 
 make allowance for my relief about Philippa, 
 instead of which she insinuates that I am heart- 
 less. I! Look at me! In crape from head to 
 foot — the very thing I hate most in the world 
 — and not able to speak without crying. But 
 there is no one to stand up for me now; though 
 I do think you might, Blanche, if you had any 
 sisterly feeling." 
 
 "I'm sure / don't complain of your not being 
 sufficiently upset, whatever Lady Sarah may 
 do," said Blanche, drily. "On the contrary, I 
 wish you'd pull yourself together a bit more 
 than you do." 
 
 "It's all very well for you to talk — you have 
 never known what real sorrow is," said Augusta, 
 weeping yet more profusely; "and I must say 
 Catherine's ingratitude, coming on the top of 
 all the rest, is enough to scatter any self-com- 
 mand one has left to the winds. I am not to go 
 
 35a 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 353 
 
 and see Philippa; she is not to be brought back 
 here; though I am told the place she is in is 
 little better than a pigsty; and her nerves are 
 too much shattered for a visit from me. It was 
 days before I was even allowed to know where 
 she was. Why this mystery? Everything kept 
 so dark. And then they fly to the opposite ex- 
 treme, and just when Philippa is doing well, and 
 one hoped the whole thing might be hushed 
 up, out it all comes in the papers, and they say 
 there is sure to be a trial, and for Philippa' s sake 
 all the facts must be known. I never heard such 
 nonsense. How can it be necessary to let people 
 know one's own cousin was almost starved to 
 death? And it is sure to get about that it was 
 my fault; though I had no more to do with it 
 than the man in the moon." 
 
 **That is just what the facts will prove, and 
 for my part I hope that woman Minart will catch 
 it hot and strong," said Blanche, gloomily. 
 
 "I think it is very spiteful of you to say so, 
 Blanche. For my part I always liked Mme. 
 Minart, and I cannot believe she is half so bad 
 as the police choose to make out. Of course 
 they must be taking up somebody, or what are 
 they for? As I wrote to Catherine when she 
 sent me word she did not wish the poor thing to 
 be prosecuted, and I never had the least idea of 
 prosecuting her! Pilkington says that she is 
 certain to get off very cheap if she is charged 
 
354 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 on her own confession, but if she chooses to be 
 charged on her own confession that has nothing 
 to do with me. I am sure I am not fit to be 
 prosecuting anybody. As I told David Moore, 
 I decHne to undertake any responsibility what- 
 ever in my present state of wretchedness. I 
 w411 sign anything they put before me, but more 
 than that I will not do." 
 
 "You are sure to be called upon to give your 
 evidence as soon as Philippa is strong enough 
 to appear, whether you like it or not," said 
 Blanche, grimly. 
 
 '*I have never done such a thing in my life, 
 and I can't believe it will be necessary," said 
 Augusta, resentfully, ''when we don't wish to 
 prosecute. However, to do David Moore justice, 
 I believe he is doing all he can for Mme. Minart 
 so it may end in her getting off altogether. I am 
 sure I never wish to hear her name again. It's 
 a lesson to me to see what comes of being good- 
 natured, and asking other people's children to 
 stay. I always said Roper was a most unsuitable 
 person to have charge of Philippa. She had no 
 influence over her at all, or how could she have 
 let her run out alone into the street before break- 
 fast; a thing nobody in London ever does. But 
 Catherine would have it she was to be trusted, 
 and you see the result!" 
 
 Blanche yawned unseen. 
 
 "Well, whether Lady Sarah likes it or not, 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 365 
 
 I shall go abroad all the same. Of what use can 
 I be here? George Chilcott and Catherine and 
 Colonel Moore settle everything just as they 
 choose. I am nobody! I shall not come back 
 to England at all, till the whole business of 
 Philippa's escapade is forgotten, and she is safely 
 engaged to young Kentisbury." 
 
 "It strikes me your exile will be somewhat 
 prolonged then," said Mrs. Rait. 
 
 "I don't see that. Every one knows he wants 
 to marry her," said Augusta, peevishly. ''And, 
 as Lady Sarah says, the sooner she marries after 
 this esclandre the better. He has made no secret 
 of being in love with her. He told his mother 
 on the night of the ball; and she told Lady 
 Sarah, who told Tailer, who told my maid. That 
 is how I came to hear of it." 
 
 "Well, I, for one, should be very sorry to see 
 Philippa married to a young nincompoop who 
 hasn't even begun to sow his wild oats," cried 
 Blanche. 
 
 "Why must he sow any wild oats at all?" 
 
 "It's reasonble to suppose that he'll do much 
 as his father and grandfather did before him. 
 And every one knows what they were like. I 
 don't trust the breed," said Blanche, bluntly. 
 
 "You always talk as though people were 
 horses and dogs, and I do think you are very 
 uncharitable, considering that Philippa met him 
 at my house," complained Augusta. "I was 
 
356 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 going to ask you to go to Plombi^res with me, 
 Blanche ; but when you are in this mood, I know 
 very well it's no use asking you anything." 
 
 **Why don't you invite Grace? She suits you 
 far better than I do." 
 
 "I have asked her," said Augusta, in an injured 
 tone, "and she won't give any definite answer. 
 She keeps shilly-shallying. To tell you the truth, 
 Blanche, and strictly between ourselves, of course, 
 I am getting rather sick of Grace Trumoin. She 
 makes quite a favour now of doing anything I 
 ask. One would think she would have jumped 
 at coming to Plombi^res. She needn't take the 
 baths. She can just sit about and do nothing. 
 Every one knows she can't afford to get any 
 thinner." 
 
 "H'm!'* said Mrs. Rait, and fell into a reverie. 
 ** Well, Gussie, I'm sure I don't want to be unkind, 
 especially just now," in a softened tone. **So 
 I'll tell you what — we'll leave it an open question. 
 If Grace comes, I won't — and if she doesn't you 
 can fall back on Bob and me. We're going to 
 mote about Europe, anyway, so we may just 
 as well make our headquarters there as anirwhere 
 else, so far as I can see. Where is Grace, by 
 the way? I thought she was staying with you? 
 Has she gone back to her flat?" 
 
 ''Dear me, no! She is still here, and has been 
 here ever since Catherine went away. How 
 could I be left alone in my state ? Not that she 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 367 
 
 is much good to me. She is downstairs in the 
 moming-room playing Halma with that child. 
 I must say it's very hard the way I am sad- 
 dled right and left with other people's children. 
 However, George Chilcott is taking Lily home 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Augusta was unaware that George Chilcott 
 was at this moment in her house, and watching 
 the game of Halma in the moming-room, whither 
 he had been ushered when he called and asked 
 to see his little daughter. 
 
 *'If I can't stop here any longer," said little 
 Lily, dolefully, "and as Cousin Catherine doesn't 
 want me now she's got Philippa back again — I 
 suppose I must go home with you, daddy. But 
 couldn't Lady Grace come with us?" 
 
 She looked up urgently into her father's face, 
 and thus did not perceive the confusion of her 
 friend, whose hand she held tightly. **It's getting 
 very hot in London now," she urged, **and 
 Lady Grace is very fond of the country. I'm 
 sure she doesn't v/ant to go abroad with Lady 
 Adelstane. If you asked her, I believe she'd 
 come." 
 
 "I don't know whether she'd come or not, 
 Lily," said George Chilcott, looking over her 
 head at Lady Grace, " but I know I've been 
 wanting to ask her that question for some time 
 past, and I don't suppose I shall ever get a better 
 
358 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 opportunity to do so than now — by the lips of a 
 very unconscious ambassador." 
 
 "Papa! I'm not unconscious," said Lily, indig- 
 nantly. "I know perfectly what I'm saying. I 
 want her to come and stay with us for a long visit." 
 
 "And I want her to come and stay with us 
 altogether," said George, quietly. 
 
 "That would be better still," Lily said, over- 
 joyed. "Will you — won't you come?" 
 
 "I think — I should like to, Lily," said Lady 
 Grace, in a low tone. 
 
 "Then that is settled," said Lily with satis- 
 faction, and neither her father nor Lady Grace 
 could help laughing. 
 
 Mrs. Rait at this moment opened the door 
 of the morning-room. "What is settled?" she 
 cried in her loud cheerful tones, and George 
 pulled his moustache in confusion, but Lady 
 Grace answered with a gaiety unusual to her: 
 
 "That I cannot go to Plombi^res after all, 
 Blanche." 
 
 "She is coming to Bridescombe with us, in- 
 stead," explained Lily. "I asked her first ; and 
 then daddy asked her; and she says she thinks she 
 would like to — so I suppose that means yes." 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder if it did, Lily,'* said Mrs. 
 Rait, with twinkling eyes; and, to Lily's aston- 
 ishment, she shook hands heartily with George, 
 and kissed Lady Grace; and said she was never 
 so glad of anything in all her life. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 359 
 
 Perhaps the days that followed the finding of 
 Philippa were among the happiest of Catherine's 
 life. 
 
 The deliverance from the anguish of suspense 
 she had suffered was in itself so great a relief 
 as to be almost joy; while, in addition, Philippa, 
 utterly dependent on her for the time being, 
 seemed her own, as she had never been since her 
 earliest childhood. 
 
 For, from the moment she regained full con- 
 sciousness, she clung to her mother, and would 
 permit no ministration from nurse or doctor 
 save in her presence. She started from sleep in 
 terror many times, to ask if Catherine were 
 there, and whether David had gone away again 
 and left her alone ; and she was always calm and 
 satisfied when she could see the face of one or 
 the other. 
 
 Catherine felt no jealousy of David; she 
 accepted his devotion and his services as a matter 
 of course, without troubling to reflect that it 
 was George Chilcott, and not he, who was Philip- 
 pa's trustee and guardian. David was Delia's 
 brother, who understood her and had saved her 
 child. 
 
 George also was busy with her affairs, and 
 perhaps Catherine regarded that, too, as a matter 
 of course. But he had besides, a family and 
 interests and affections of his own to occupy 
 him; whereas David was unattached, and there- 
 
360 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 fore free, if he chose, to constitute himself her 
 knight and protector. 
 
 So David, though he went daily to his work 
 in the War Office, was allowed to pay Philippa 
 a visit morning and evening, and slept at the 
 villa, mounting guard over the little household 
 with a curious sense that Catherine and her 
 child somehow belonged to him more nearly 
 than to any one else in the world, and that 
 no one else had so much right to defend 
 them. 
 
 Catherine, too, was contented to leave every- 
 thing to him, so that she was not troubled with 
 business nor communications from the outside 
 world, but could be left in peace to nurse her 
 child. 
 
 For Philippa was still a child in her mother's 
 eyes, though she showed herself less childish than 
 ever before, in those wakeful hours of summer 
 darkness, when she clung closer to Catherine 
 and whispered something of the thoughts and 
 dreams that had haunted those long days and 
 nights of starvation and solitary confinement 
 in the deserted house. 
 
 Catherine shed tears over the broken mur- 
 murs, as she heard of the courage and scorn with 
 which the poor spoilt child first faced her im- 
 prisonment, so certain that somebody must and 
 would come to her aid that she made no efforts 
 to release herself — of the gradual despairing 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 361 
 
 conviction that she had been left alone to die — 
 of the horrors that tortured her imagination 
 as her bodily weakness increased — of the terrible 
 faces in the darkness, and the pain — the pain 
 that would not stop. 
 
 "Oh, let me tell you, mummie," she whispered 
 piteously, when Catherine would have stopped 
 her, fearing to let her dwell on these recollec- 
 tions; "it gets it off my mind to tell you. You 
 know, at last I wasn't sure where I was — and 
 whether it was night or day, because I saw the 
 little breakfast table at Shepherd's Rest so 
 plainly — even Roper's crusty loaf and the brown 
 honeycomb; and I heard you calling me to 
 come, but I couldn't move. And I thought 
 then," said Philippa, very simply, "how often 
 you had called me and I wouldn't come — and 
 that I had lived sixteen years and done nothing, 
 nothing of good in the world, and that now I 
 would go out of it without any one being the 
 better for my being bom." 
 
 "0 Phil, Phil, how little you know!" cried 
 her mother, softly. 
 
 Catherine hushed her and soothed her, and 
 listened in wonder to words which told her that 
 Philippa's seeming heartlessness had been — after 
 all — only a phase of her careless youth — a phase 
 already lived through and left behind when the 
 child, who was a child no longer, had battled 
 through her dark hour alone, and among the 
 
362 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 mysteries of solitude had come face to face 
 with death. 
 
 But her cry now was to go home, and the 
 demand brought back to Catherine's remem- 
 brance that Philippa's days at Shepherd's Rest, 
 hke the days of her childhood, were numbered, 
 and that the news had yet to be broken to her 
 of her cousin's untimely end, and her own in- 
 heritance. 
 
 Roper was sent down to prepare the cottage 
 for their reception, as soon as it was considered 
 prudent for the invalid to travel after the fatigue 
 and emotion engendered by her necessary attend- 
 ance at the police court; where, however, every 
 possible consideration was shown for her weak 
 condition, and the formal taking of her evidence 
 soon completed. David arranged the details of 
 their journey, which was to be made at night, 
 both to avoid the heat and any possibility of a 
 curious crowd at Ilverton, where George Chilcott 
 had a close carriage ready to meet his young 
 cousin and ward. 
 
 He performed the double service of escorting 
 her and Catherine home, and of keeping his Aunt 
 Dulcinea out of the way until Philippa had been 
 safely settled in her own room and her own bed. 
 
 Poor Miss Dulcinea had time to exhaust her 
 joy, her wonder, and her emotion generally over 
 Catherine, before she was admitted to the pres- 
 ence of her grandniece next day. Then she was 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 363 
 
 so much overcome by the delicacy of Philippa's 
 appearance that she burst into tears, and had 
 to be hurried away, without regaining breath 
 or presence of mind to make a single indiscreet 
 revelation. 
 
 "But Philippa must be told about poor Cecil. 
 I live in constant dread of her hearing it suddenly," 
 Catherine said to George Chilcott, ''and yet I 
 fear the effect of the shock upon her. She is still 
 very weak, and easily upset, and she worked 
 herself up into a dreadful state about Mme. Mi- 
 nart, until David soothed her by promising to 
 take her message of forgiveness, and to see that 
 she and her family were provided for, and not 
 left to struggle on in sickness and disgrace and 
 poverty, poor things. I hope they won't be 
 too hard upon her." 
 
 "How you can sentimentalise over that woman 
 I can't tell," said George, rather crossly. 
 
 "I am sorry for any one who is driven to crime 
 by want ; for I suppose that is what it practically 
 amounted to." 
 
 "Well, at least Philippa must have got over 
 her infatuation." 
 
 "Yes, but the first personal experience of 
 treachery must always be a shock; and now here 
 is this terrible news awaiting her." 
 
 "You had better tell her yourself than let 
 her find it out from some one else, as she is sure 
 to do," said George, gruffly. 
 
364 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 Catherine told Philippa one morning, as she 
 sat beside the open window of the low oak parlour, 
 looking almost ethereally delicate in her white 
 wrapper, with her bright hair coiled above her 
 transparent brow and large blue eyes. 
 
 The day was oppressively hot ; the distant hills 
 were shrouded in early mist, but the garden 
 was blazing in full sunshine. 
 
 The Madonna lilies, in dazzling purity of illu- 
 minated white and gold, stood in rows below the 
 open window, their glorious clusters almost on a 
 level with Philippa's eyes, as she lay back in her 
 low cushioned chair. Over a pointed rustic 
 archway, the opening purple stars of a summer 
 clematis dangled against the cloudless sky, above 
 the crimson bunches of a rambling briar rose. 
 The good red-brown soil of the Devonshire garden 
 was almost hidden by the burden of its own 
 wealth ; deep-coloured pansies, scented sweet-peas, 
 delicately tinted campanulas, and brilliant nas- 
 turtiums. The orange calceolarias, and the 
 scarlet geraniums glowed vividly in the shade 
 or shone triumphant in the sun; and the bees 
 hummed about the lilies and the carpet of 
 mignonette which sent its message of sweetness 
 upwards to Philippa. 
 
 The long shadows of early morning fell across 
 the dewy grass from the young spruce firs in the 
 plantation Catherine had made from a bracken- 
 grown paddock; and the birds sang rapturously 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 365 
 
 in the surrounding woods. A cow lowing pite- 
 ously for her calf added a note of sadness to the 
 scene of nature's waking and rejoicing. 
 
 Philippa listened to her mother's soft reluctant 
 voice, and cried, and looked across the valley 
 to the distant hillside, where, among the rounded 
 tree-tops glowing in the haze of the early sun- 
 shine, the turrets of her own Abbey rose to view. 
 
 The almost fatherly love and admiration of 
 her cousin Cecil had not been lost upon her; she 
 cried to think she should see him no more, and 
 because the thought of a new responsibility 
 was too much for her in her weakness, and also 
 because she had at times vaguely wished that her 
 father's Abbey were her own, without consciously 
 realising that the road to the attainment of 
 her wish lay through the gate of death. 
 
 But she was young, and the details were spared 
 her, and the story told so tenderly that the very 
 suddenness of Cecil's end appeared in the most 
 merciful light; so that she did not suffer, as 
 Catherine had feared, from the shock. She was 
 subdued and gentle, and shed tears from time to 
 time, during that long day by the open window ; 
 while her mother waited anxiously upon her, bring- 
 ing her the frequent nourishment she was ordered 
 to take, and surrounding her with loving attentions, 
 which, truth to tell, fidgeted Philippa not a little. 
 
 But the next morning she grew almost cheerful 
 again, for little Lily was admitted as a visitor, 
 
366 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 and chatted away, amusing her contemporary 
 as Catherine with all her efforts was unable to do ; 
 for Philippa took little interest in the daily 
 trivial happenings of the household and farm, 
 and none at all in books, so that she was not an 
 easy patient to entertain. 
 
 But as she and Lily bent their heads together 
 and whispered, Catherine heard her child laugh 
 more than once, naturally and merrily — a sound 
 she could not but welcome, though Philippa 
 stopped herself each time, with a guilty glance 
 towards her mother, and an evident pang of 
 self-reproach. 
 
 Catherine sighed, and yet was thankful; reflect- 
 ing that it would be a melancholy world if the 
 young could suffer as the old, instead of taking 
 the misfortunes of their elders as much for granted 
 as they are generally inclined to do. 
 
 " I am going to have a last look at the Alps,** 
 wrote Lady Sarah, who had paid farewell visits 
 to Switzerland at regular intervals for many 
 years past. * 'And if you wish to do me a kindness, 
 my dear Catherine, in what may prove to be 
 probably the last summer of my life, you will join 
 me at Lucerne. I shall make my headquarters 
 at the Schweitzerhof, which would suit us all 
 admirably for a few weeks, but if you prefer 
 something quieter, there is nothing to prevent 
 us from migrating to some alpine village within 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 367 
 
 easy distance. The great heights do not suit my 
 weak heart, and I am obHged to stay on my 
 balcony and content myself with such scenery as 
 I can enjoy from thence, without any attempt 
 at climbing or touring. But this need not deter 
 you, and the entire change of surroundings would 
 be just what Philippa requires to get back the 
 tone and strength she has lost. There would be 
 opportunities for little quiet outings for her now 
 and then, since, though you and I may be in no 
 mood for gaiety, we must not forget she is a 
 young thing who should not be allowed to mope, 
 especially under the circumstances. I am break- 
 ing up very fast, and it would be a consolation to 
 be allowed to see something of my grandchild 
 before I die." 
 
 Catherine did not find herself able to resist this 
 appeal, and laid the letter before Philippa with 
 a suggestion that it was perhaps a duty to accept 
 the invitation from her grandmother. 
 
 ** Could Cousin David come with us?" said Phi- 
 lippa, with a very perceptible increase of colour. 
 
 **He could not leave his work, you know, 
 darling. He can't even come down here very 
 easily, he says." 
 
 "Then I don't want to go," said Philippa, 
 very decidedly, and lay back in her arm-chair 
 with a dejected expression which went to her 
 mother's heart; while a large tear forced its 
 
368 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 way through her closed eyelashes and trickled 
 down her thin white cheek. 
 
 But the doctor combated the young lady's reso- 
 lution so energetically that she gave way, on the 
 promise that her mother would bring her home at 
 the end of a fortnight if she did not like the change. 
 
 David Moore wrote his hearty approval of the 
 plan, but he did not come down to Welwysbere 
 to say good-bye, as perhaps Catherine had ex- 
 pected, but said that he was very hard- worked 
 just now, and had arranged to take his holiday 
 in the autumn, by which time he hoped Philippa 
 would be quite strong again. 
 
 Lady Sarah's courier relieved them of all 
 trouble and responsibility during the journey, 
 and it was impossible for Philippa to say that 
 she did not like the novelty and excitement of 
 leaving her own country for the first time. She 
 enjoyed even the Channel crossing, and the 
 arrival at Calais, where poor Catherine looked 
 around her in astonishment, for the familiar 
 ramparts and gateways of her childhood had 
 vanished, and it was a strange new Calais which 
 met her disappointed gaze. 
 
 But Philippa enjoyed the long railway journey 
 through the fiat pollarded country, peopled by 
 unfamiliar inhabitants in blue blouses, and 
 slept soundly in the hotel at Bale, where they 
 broke the journey, sleeping in a chambre h deux 
 lits, with quaint short wooden bedsteads, fur- 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 369 
 
 nished with mountainous feather quilts in spite 
 of the summer season. 
 
 They found Lady Sarah at Lucerne, comfort- 
 ably ensconced in a suite of apartments on the 
 first floor of the hotel, with her maid Tailer, her 
 tallest footman, and a little dog in attendance; 
 and Philippa was so little fatigued by the journey 
 that she was eager to go out at once and buy a 
 family of wooden bears for Lily, though she 
 could not be persuaded to interest herself in the 
 probability of the clouds presently lifting from 
 the summit of Mont Pilatte. 
 
 "I know exactly what mountains are like, 
 mamma. I have seen dozens of pictures of them," 
 said Philippa; and she was allowed to venture 
 forth under the chaperonage of the severe Tailer, 
 followed, much to her chagrin, and by Lady 
 Sarah's peremptory orders, by the manservant. 
 
 **I will have no more adventures," observed 
 her grandmother, "and you will be back again 
 in half an hour, Tailer." 
 
 "Very good, my lady," said Tailer, who knew 
 her mistress better than to be late by so much 
 as a moment when she was given a time limit. 
 
 "The extraordinary thing is that the journey 
 has absolutely done Phil good, instead of knock- 
 ing her up," said Catherine. "She looks better 
 already. How wise you were! For I have been 
 very anxious about her lately." 
 
 "My love, you give yourself a great deal of 
 
370 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 unnecessary anxiety," said Lady Sarah. "A 
 week in this pure air will entirely restore her. 
 She looks stronger than you do, for that matter." 
 
 "Oh, Lady Sarah, how can you say so? If 
 you had but seen how languid and depressed she 
 was, and how little interest she takes in things." 
 
 *'I did not say her mind was stronger," said 
 Lady Sarah, drily. "But it is impossible to look 
 at her clear skin and bright eyes without perceiv- 
 ing that she is regaining her health as fast as pos- 
 sible. Whereas you, my poor Catherine, look pale 
 and tired, and altogether worn out." 
 
 **I am one of the people who are never ill," 
 said Catherine, shaking her head with a faint 
 smile. "You have no idea how strong I am. 
 Philippa is a very different matter." 
 
 "A little youthful companionship, my love," 
 said Lady Sarah, "is all that is needed to cheer 
 our sweet Philippa, and afford her the distraction 
 she requires. It is impossible to tell what may 
 be ailing a girl's spirits at that age. She is prob- 
 ably in love," said Lady Sarah, with a twinkle in 
 her blue eye for which Catherine was at a loss to 
 account, until the required distraction was pres- 
 ently supplied by the arrival of Lady Kentisbury, 
 with her son and daughter, at the Schweitzerhof . 
 
 Catherine then understood very well, in spite 
 of Lady Sarah's well-acted surprise, the reason 
 why Philippa' s grandmother had been so exceed- 
 ingly anxious to pay a farewell visit to the Alps. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 Catherine and her daughter remained in Swit- 
 zerland until nearly the end of September, and 
 during these two months Philippa not only- 
 regained her health completely, but fulfilled 
 the traditions of her family by receiving an offer 
 of marriage at sixteen, while she exasperated 
 her grandmother by refusing it. 
 
 "She is too young," pleaded Catherine, whose 
 heart was nevertheless secretly touched by the 
 despair of the youthful lover and the disap- 
 pointment of his mother. 
 
 **I am not too young, and I would not marry 
 him if I were a hundred," said Philippa, with 
 flushed cheeks, not at all grateful for her mother's 
 gentle championship; for she felt herself quite 
 able to face Lady Sarah's scolding unaided. 
 
 Lady Kentisbury was a meek woman; but the 
 meekest woman in the world will turn upon the 
 maiden who presumes to refuse her son. 
 
 **I have nothing to say," she said with great 
 dignity to Catherine, *' nothing at all," and she 
 proceeded to discuss the matter immediately. 
 "She is quite right to refuse him if she does not 
 
 371 
 
372 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 really love him — though I should have thought 
 — but, however, she is too young to estimate a 
 pure disinterested affection at its true worth. 
 Still, perhaps it is a pity she did not make her 
 feelings clear a little sooner — that she should 
 have allowed him to hope she felt quite differently 
 towards him during all these weeks of boating 
 and excursions and mountain-climbing together. 
 I would never have encouraged it had I dreamt 
 how it was going to end. It seems hard, after all 
 the anxiety he suffered about her in London, 
 that he should be called upon now to suffer all 
 over again." 
 
 But Philippa neither felt nor expressed much 
 sympathy with the sufferings of her rejected 
 lover. 
 
 *'As for saying I allowed him to hope, mamma, 
 that is all nonsense," she observed, ** unless 
 snubbing him every time he opened his mouth 
 is allowing him to hope. He is a nice boy, and 
 has much better manners than Hector, and is 
 not half so stupid; but it is not very likely I 
 should marry a muff like that." 
 
 **You are a little idiot," said her grandmother, 
 politely; but Lady Sarah, as has been said, was 
 a philosopher in her way, and when she per- 
 ceived that Philippa had made up her mind 
 not to wed her cousin, she turned her thoughts 
 in another direction, comforted herself with the 
 reflection that her grandchild had correctly 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 373 
 
 described the young man as a muff, and set her- 
 self very kindly to console Lady Kentisbury. 
 
 ** After all, my dear Jane, it might not have 
 done. Philippa is a wilful, obstinate creature. 
 She should marry a man of strong character 
 who is older and wiser than herself. Kentisbury 
 would never have had the strength of mind to 
 keep her in order. Depend upon it she would 
 have led him a fine dance. He had far better 
 marry one of these pretty Americans with plenty 
 of dollars and plenty of sense, who would be 
 clever enough to amuse him and keep him out 
 of mischief, and bring a little new blood into 
 the family, and it is to be hoped a few brains 
 into the bargain. And I hear wretched accounts 
 of Philippa's property. Poor Cecil left his affairs 
 in a sad muddle. Mr. Ash reports it will take all 
 her four years of minority to get things straight 
 again. He even advises letting the Abbey. That 
 is what comes of marrying a rich woman. She 
 saves her money and spends yours. Augusta 
 was always the soul of selfishness." 
 
 **I do not care about money. Aunt Sarah," 
 said Lady Kentisbury, reprovingly, "though of 
 course Charlie could not very well marry a girl 
 who had nothing of her own. But I do care 
 about his happiness, and he has set his heart 
 upon marrying Philippa." 
 
 "Pooh, nonsense," said Lady Sarah. "A boy 
 of one-and-twenty has fifty hearts; what can it 
 
374 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 signify if he loses one ? Find the pretty American 
 as soon as possible; and, Jane, don't lose sight 
 of him for a moment, or he will be making some 
 foolish marriage or other in the rebound." 
 
 "It's all very well to say don't lose sight of 
 him," said poor Lady Kentisbury, in tears; "but 
 he is of age, and if he chooses to go off to Tim- 
 buctoo or marry a French actress to-morrow, 
 how can I stop him? He's broken-hearted, poor 
 boy; begging even for a little hope, which I dare 
 not give him." 
 
 "Dare not give him! Fiddlededee! Send him 
 to me — I will give him plenty of hope," said the 
 unscrupulous old lady, with the utmost cheer- 
 fulness, "and Timbuctoo is an excellent idea. 
 Now I come to think of it, Jane, it is enough to 
 drive any young man to despair, to be sym- 
 pathised with and sentimentalised over from 
 morning till night by you and Joanna. He must 
 go off on one or other of these African shooting 
 expeditions. Who was telling me about them 
 the other day? Oh, young Askillaun, a nice 
 cheerful Irishman. He's going. I forget when, 
 and I forget where; but I can easily find out. 
 He shall invite Charlie. He would do anything 
 for me; his father is one of my oldest friends." 
 
 "Do you want my boy to be killed?" shrieked 
 his mother. 
 
 "There are no actresses in Timbuctoo," said 
 Lady Sarah, grimly, "and it might make a man 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 375 
 
 of him, Jane. At present he is nothing but a 
 little bundle of nerves and sensibility. I'll tell 
 him that if he wants Philippa to regret him, the 
 further he goes and the sooner he's off the better." 
 
 **rm sure he and Lord Askillaun would have 
 nothing at all in common," said Lady Kentisbury 
 resentfully. "I believe he is a most reckless 
 man.'* 
 
 But later on her son actually took his grand- 
 mother's advice, and, to the despair of his mother, 
 departed in pursuit of big game in the wake 
 of this famous sportsman; thereby forgetting 
 his woes and improving his physique at one and 
 the same time. Meanwhile the discomfort of 
 those last days at Lucerne, the gloom of the 
 unsuccessful suitor, and the reproachful looks 
 of his parent and sister had to be endured. 
 
 "It is odd that two generations of rakes should 
 produce such a milksop," said Lady Sarah to 
 Catherine, quite calmly. "I remember his grand- 
 father as a very pretty fellow, but a sad dare- 
 devil. I believe he never went to bed sober in his 
 life," and she related to the horrified Catherine a 
 number of the most scandalous anecdotes of Lord 
 Kentisbury's forbears, concerning which she had 
 not hitherto breathed a single syllable. 
 
 Catherine was not a little thankful, under the 
 circumstances, to carry her child back to Devon- 
 shire, and Philippa declared and believed herself 
 very glad to go. Nevertheless, the cottage seemed 
 
376 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 very small, and life at Shepherd's Rest very dull, 
 on her return from those long summer weeks of 
 holiday-making in Switzerland, after the bright- 
 ness and laughter of young companionship, the 
 excitement of constant expeditions, the atten- 
 tions of a young lover, and the new dignity of 
 womanhood which her experiences at Lucerne 
 had conferred upon her. 
 
 The old unhappy state of things seemed inclined 
 to prevail once more in the familiar atmosphere 
 of the home-life of mother and daughter. 
 
 Philippa's listless manner returned upon her, 
 and in her mother's company she was very silent, 
 though obviously and painfully trying to be less 
 petulant and wilful than formerly. 
 
 There are some children who, as they grow up, 
 ask of their parents only one thing — to be let 
 alone to develop in their own way — and to whom 
 the anxious counsel, the constant questioning 
 and attention and watchfulness engendered by 
 parental love, are insupportable. 
 
 The husband and wife whose characters do not 
 accord, whose early love proves unable to with- 
 stand the test and fret of daily intercourse — 
 form the theme of many tragedies or comedies 
 of misfortune; but comparatively little is said 
 of the parent and child in like case. Yet since 
 this relationship is eternal — unchangeable — the 
 tragedy in a sense lies deeper. The parent sel- 
 dom speaks of the bitter love and disappointment 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 377 
 
 — ^the failure of earthly hopes— involved ; nor 
 does the child often utter its impatience of an 
 affection beyond its powers of comprehension, 
 nor explain its own yearnings for individual 
 freedom. 
 
 Catherine said nothing; but Philippa's old 
 Somersetshire nurse, with the shrewdness of 
 peasant wit and motherhood combined, easily 
 divined her trouble, and the cause of it, and 
 was not slow to comment upon either. 
 
 "Her'll come back, my dear, doan'tee niver 
 frit yarself. Her '11 come back to yu, zo shar as 
 Vate. And doan'tee niver frit her neither, wi' 
 asking vor what her can't give. A young maid 
 be often turble shy of they as knows her best, 
 though seemingly her's ready tu give her very 
 soul to the first stranger as axes vor't. Mind 
 how 'twas in yure own yuth, my lady, and doan'tee 
 git blaming on she. Wait till her has children 
 of her own, and knows what 'tis." 
 
 "But she will be a middle-aged woman by then, 
 Roper. And I want my child's love and confi- 
 dence now," said Catherine, smiling rather sadly. 
 
 **Doan't us arl know the feeling on't, gentle ar 
 zimple?" cried Roper, with zealous sympathy. 
 **Luke tu my little Johnny, zech a wonderful 
 gude bye as he used to be, like a little rose as 
 'twere, wi' his curly hair zo bright as zunshine, 
 and putting of his tu arms round my neck zo 
 loving as cude be. And luke tu him now, a great 
 
378 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 hulking man, wi* a vace zo red as a beet, and 
 making a great calf of hisself vor love of that 
 vamous trapsing maid of Joe Brume's as I can't 
 abide the zight on't, vor her du flout him proper. 
 And yit I doan't complain, my lady," said Roper, 
 in subdued tones; "var 'tis nart but nature, 
 when arl's said and done, and 'tain't no use going 
 against it." 
 
 But with the dawn of October came the bustle 
 of change and arrival; for Augusta had sent 
 word that she now felt able to collect her per- 
 sonal belongings at the Abbey, and remove them 
 to her London house; while Lady Sarah, not 
 to be outdone, suggested at the same time that 
 she would like to pay a visit to her old home 
 before the proposed final breaking up of the es- 
 tablishment there, and hinted adroitly that she 
 should expect to find Catherine and Philippa 
 established in their proper place there to receive 
 her. 
 
 Catherine once more received a pathetic letter 
 from her mother-in-law. 
 
 "The recollections of such a visit," wrote 
 Lady Sarah, "however melancholy the associa- 
 tion, must greatly cheer the closing days of 
 my existence ; and, moreover, my dear love, it is 
 just as well, in our sweet Philippa' s interests, that 
 some one as intimately acquainted as I am with 
 the Adelstane treasures should be present to keep 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 379 
 
 an eye upon Augusta's claims; who has no con- 
 science whatever, I regret to say, where hric-h-hrac 
 is concerned." 
 
 George Chilcott earnestly seconded Lady Sarah's 
 proposition, and Catherine accordingly went 
 quietly down to the Abbey with her daughter 
 one afternoon, and took possession of her old 
 rooms there. 
 
 Lady Sarah and Augusta arrived the same 
 evening, and the sparring matches that imme- 
 diately ensued left Catherine little time for mem- 
 ories or for sentiment, for she had much ado 
 to keep the peace between them at all; while 
 civility obliged her to sympathise with Augusta, 
 in the privacy of her apartment, after they had 
 retired upstairs for the night. 
 
 "It will not be so bad to-morrow," she said, 
 consolingly, **for Mr. Ash will be here, and George 
 will bring over David Moore, who is coming 
 to Bridescombe for a few days; you know Lady 
 Sarah is always in a better humour when there 
 are a few people about, and that she hates being 
 alone." 
 
 "At her age, with one foot in the grave, it 
 seems to me most extraordinary that she could 
 cling to the company of gentlemen as she does," 
 said Augusta. "But the one thing I insist upon, 
 Catherine, is that not even George Chilcott or 
 David Moore must be asked to dinner, while I 
 am in such deep mourning. You must remem- 
 
380 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 ber that though they may be your relations 
 they are not mine. Luncheon I do not mind so 
 much; but I draw the line at dinner." 
 
 Catherine soothed her by assurances that her 
 wishes should be respected, and that her hospital- 
 ity to her cousins should be strictly limited by 
 the clock, during Augusta's visit, and the widow 
 gradually grew calmer, though her complaints 
 were still numerous. 
 
 "Did I tell you how oddly Blanche behaved 
 to me abroad? Towards the end of our stay at 
 Plombi^res she scarcely spoke to me, though 
 I had lost nearly half a stone in weight, and was 
 feeling as weak as a cat. We were quite thankful 
 to part. Since then she has not written once, and 
 if you will believe me, she forgot my birthday!'* 
 
 ** Perhaps she thought that under the circum- 
 stances" — hinted Catherine, delicately. 
 
 **I should have imagined that under the cir- 
 cumstances she would have been more anxious 
 than ever to show she had not forgotten me, 
 since there was no one else to remember," said 
 Augusta tearfully, and Catherine felt conscience- 
 stricken, for she, too, had forgotten this interesting 
 anniversary, and could not feel sure that Augusta's 
 reproach was not directed partly towards her- 
 self. *'It's the attention I care for," said 
 Augusta. "If she had even written, though that 
 would have been disappointing enough, since she 
 can't write letters, and she can buy presents. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 381 
 
 I only expected a trifle. But to be forgotten 
 altogether! Last year she sent me that dia- 
 mond pendant with the pink pearl." 
 
 *'I remember. It was very handsome." 
 
 "She can well afford it," said Augusta, resent- 
 fully. **She has no expenses whatever. A tailor- 
 made suit and a motor, and there she is! Or 
 rather, where is she? — for she flies all over the 
 place, and one never knows even where to send a 
 telegram or a postcard to remind her of any- 
 thing. By the by, when does Grace's wedding 
 come off? I'm told, now that it is settled, Mrs. 
 Chilcott has quite come round, and is boasting 
 of Grace's connections, as though they were her 
 own, which must be very unpleasant for Grace. 
 But, however, as she and her daughter are going 
 off to live at Cheltenham, it will not signify so 
 much. My maid told me all this, and she heard 
 the wedding was fixed for Christmas. Since 
 her engagement I have heard next to nothing 
 from Grace." 
 
 "They are to be married very soon. I do not 
 think the date is fixed." 
 
 "Well, I hope she may be happy; but I must 
 say I think George Chilcott is a great fool, for 
 she hasn't a halfpenny in the world beyond her 
 four hundred a year. And she has very extrava- 
 gant tastes. She dresses better than I do." 
 
 "Come, Augusta, you know you are very fond 
 of her." 
 
382 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 **I used to be fond of her; but one can't go 
 on being fond of a person who gives her whole 
 attention to somebody else. Talk of loving 
 your enemies," said Augusta, in melancholy 
 tones, "I must say I have always found it more 
 difficult to love my friends. One has so few 
 enemies they hardly count; but one always has 
 friends and relations, and they always say horrid 
 things either to you or about you, like Lady 
 Sarah, or get tired of you and go mooning about 
 after somebody else, like Grace." 
 
 Lady Sarah was already in bed when Catherine, 
 in response to a message from Tailer, visited her 
 room, and very picturesque she looked, as she 
 lay propped up among her pillows, with a fringe 
 of silver curls neatly stitched inside the borders 
 of her night-cap, which was tied with pink ribbons 
 beneath her handsome witch-like old face. 
 
 "Well, my love, so here we are again. I see 
 you have taken care to give me my own old room, 
 a thing Augusta never had the grace to do in all 
 her sixteen years of ownership here. I assure 
 you, my love, I am very sensible of the attention, 
 and I made a point of letting Augusta know it. 
 If anything could console me for what has hap- 
 pened, it is the thought that that woman is 
 ousted from her place here," said Lady Sarah, 
 with an energy that belied her age. "Pray did 
 you hear her advising me to begin Swedish exer- 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 383 
 
 cises at once, and offering to teach me to breathe ? 
 Teach me to breathe!" said Lady Sarah, with 
 great indignation. "I have managed to breathe 
 for eighty odd years, however, without Augusta's 
 help, I beHeve." 
 
 "Dear Lady Sarah, won't you be at peace even 
 with poor Augusta just now?" said Catherine, 
 entreatingly. *'You are at home, in your old 
 place, and, however sadly it came about, I am 
 thankful to see you there. But my heart is very 
 full to-night." 
 
 "To be sure, poor child, you have not slept 
 under this roof since our poor Philip — Ah, 
 Catherine, I talk of Augusta, or anything else, 
 to keep myself from dwelling on — what has 
 happened," said Lady Sarah, in a trembling voice; 
 "I am like Beaumarchais* Figaro, I must needs 
 laugh lest I weep. I have gone through life 
 laughing, upon that principle." 
 
 "You are braver than I," said Catherine. 
 
 "I need to be," said the old woman, "with 
 nothing before me but — the dark, and an eternal 
 good-night. At my age one puts one's head on 
 the pillow every night with the pleasing certainty 
 that Death cannot be far off. . . . When my 
 time comes, Catherine, for slipping away into 
 the unknown, I would not mind seeing your kind 
 little face by my bedside." 
 
 Catherine touched her hand caressingly. 
 
 "You won't be afraid?" she said softly. 
 
384 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 **No, my dear, I shall not be afraid." 
 
 Lady Sarah was silent for a moment, and 
 then spoke again: 
 
 **But you have half your life before you still, 
 little Catherine, and perhaps the happiest part." 
 
 By the light of the fire she saw Catherine 
 shake her head. 
 
 "No — for the happiest part of a woman's 
 life is when she is absolutely and individually 
 necessary to some one's happiness. That time 
 will never come to me again, now Philippa is 
 grown up. But I have her safe, and I am content. 
 I ask no more." 
 
 "I ask a good deal more, for I want to see 
 Philippa's son before I die," said Lady Sarah, 
 grimly. "The sooner she marries David Moore, 
 and settles down here, the better I shall be 
 pleased." 
 
 "David Moore!" Catherine drew her breath, 
 startled. "Do you think — But I am sure — I 
 am certain he looks upon her as a child." 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense; there are eighteen years 
 between them — a very proper difference. He 
 called upon me in town yesterday, my love, and 
 told me he had been offered the post of military 
 attache — I will not say where, as it is still a secret; 
 but it is everything that is most delightful. Of 
 course, I saw in a moment why he came and 
 told me all about it. He is spoken of everywhere 
 as a very rising man, I find, and he is only at 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 385 
 
 the beginning of his career at five or six and 
 thirty. And as he belongs to no particular family, 
 of course he will make no objection to taking 
 the name of Adelstane. In fact, it will help him 
 along, and he will probably get the baronetcy 
 back into the bargain one of these days. It 
 won't hurt his career to have a rich wife. Besides, 
 he is a fine handsome fellow, very unlike that 
 poor little chetif Kentisbury. So now you 
 know why I was so anxious to come down, 
 my love." 
 
 Catherine hardly listened to these details; 
 she was dumb, with a surprise half pleasurable, 
 half painful. 
 
 David — and Philippa. Her little Phil. 
 
 ** There is no reason for delay that I know of,** 
 said Lady Sarah, "though I daresay he will 
 want a little encouragement, since he is a chival- 
 rous and disinterested kind of person — ^just the 
 sort to jib at an heiress — they are very rare 
 nowadays. I don't mean heiresses, but disinter- 
 ested men. However, I know one when I see 
 one. I took care to let him know she had re- 
 fused Kentisbury. Their marriage could be 
 next June, when Philippa will be seventeen, and 
 the engagement will keep her happy and con- 
 tented all the winter, and give you time to buy 
 her clothes. For my part, I hope he will speak 
 out as soon as possible. I hate shilly-shally." 
 
 **You will not say anything — you will not do 
 
 as 
 
386 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 anything — to bring it about." Catherine hardly 
 knew what she said. 
 
 "I! Is it Hkely?". said Lady Sarah, with a 
 guilty twinkle in her blue eyes. "By-the-by, 
 I did perhaps suggest his running down here 
 to see us all; for he let out to me, quite un- 
 consciously, that he had been keeping away by 
 design." 
 
 "I have wondered why he did not come," 
 said Catherine, and paused, while a thousand 
 indications of Philippa's feelings towards David 
 rushed upon her mind, and brought conviction. 
 
 "You need wonder no longer, my love, but go to 
 bed and dream of the future, since we cannot 
 alter the past, dream as we will; whereas, with 
 a little care and forethought it is sometimes 
 possible to shape the future to one's ends. I 
 confess it gives me pleasure to think of Philippa's 
 son reigning over the Abbey; though, as a rule, 
 I consider the happiness of being a grandmother 
 is much overrated. How it can make any woman 
 of experience happy to stand by and see her sons 
 and daughters mismanaging their children, I 
 have never yet been able to understand," said 
 Lady Sarah. 
 
 Philippa sat alone under a great oak-tree, which 
 spread gnarled branches above a grassy mound 
 in the grounds of Welwysbere. 
 
 It was late afternoon, and the sleepy twittering 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 387 
 
 of birds, the calls of the wood-pigeons from one 
 grove to another, alone broke the silence. 
 
 Among the motionless trees there stretched 
 away an open space of green before her, where 
 Italian vases of carven stone gleamed whitely 
 from their grey weather-stained pedestals upon 
 the velvet turf, holding up glowing burdens of rose 
 and scarlet branching bloom, vivid in the low light. 
 
 A group of autumn flowers, orange tritonias, 
 cactus dahlias, and white standard hydrangeas, 
 broke the vista of green upon green. 
 
 The restfulness of age, of centuries of cultiva- 
 tion, was upon the garden. The sun was setting, 
 and the low dazzling rays gleamed through the 
 lime-trees of the western avenue. A cock phea- 
 sant ran across the red path, unheeding the 
 motionless figure; two little rabbits stole from 
 beneath the rhododendrons, and played, un- 
 suspecting, on the grass. 
 
 Beyond, the mighty oaks and tall elms stretched 
 away in perspective into the mist of distance and 
 approaching eve; the shining road wound away 
 from the portals of the great house that was hers, 
 to the unseen village below. 
 
 The melancholy of this solitary comer of her 
 wide domain suited with her mood ; for her heart 
 ached with that sense of longing and loneliness 
 and disappointment which is even harder to bear 
 in youth than in age. 
 
 Report said that Colonel Moore had been out 
 
388 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 shooting with George Chilcott all the afternoon, 
 but he had not come to the Abbey, though the 
 irrepressible Lady Sarah had dropped many 
 hints that morning to Philippa of poor suitors 
 who required encouragement from rich maidens. 
 She had even gone so far as to relate the story 
 of the rose given by a reigning queen to a silent 
 prince, in token of the love that he must not 
 and she dared not speak. 
 
 But whereas in many maidens of sixteen an 
 outwardly childish aspect conceals much inward 
 and womanly guile, yet in Philippa's case her 
 womanly appearance was belied by a most 
 sincere simplicity, and she could no more have 
 profited by Lady Sarah's hints than she could 
 have put into words the love and longing which 
 now possessed her bosom. 
 
 Nevertheless, her heart beat faster when she 
 presently perceived, at the far end of the open 
 glade before her, the figures of George Chilcott 
 and David Moore, each with a gun under his 
 arm. She knew that in her white gown she 
 must be visible to them both, but at the open- 
 ing in the bushes which led to the stables she 
 saw George pause, speak to his companion, and 
 turn away into the by-path. 
 
 David came towards her, alone, and as she 
 lifted her eyes to his face something gentle and 
 wistful in his expression made her rise and come 
 down to meet him. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 389 
 
 With a mixture of simplicity and stateliness 
 that became her extreme youth and her personal 
 dignity very well, Philippa put her hand into 
 his. 
 
 Catherine, in her plain black gown, sat at the 
 writing-table in the great hall at the Abbey, and 
 through the great mullioned window perceived 
 David, walking slowly across the park, in the low 
 afternoon sunshine, by Philippa' s side. 
 
 The hall door stood open; the deer were 
 couched in a circle upon the edge of the turf 
 beyond the drive, in the shadow of a majestic 
 cedar; the red Devon cattle browsed quietly in 
 the sunshine. The tall elms threw long shadows 
 over the grass, and the loud cawing of the rooks 
 sounded through the open doorway. 
 
 The great clock in the comer ticked loudly 
 in the silence. At the foot of the pillars which 
 supported the arched roof stood groups of ferns 
 and exotic plants, lovely in form and colour 
 and scent, lighting up the darkness of the black 
 oak with which the hall was lined, and the sombre 
 family portraits hung upon the panels. 
 
 Numberless blue porcelain bowls and pots and 
 jars of every shape and size, filled with pot-pourri , 
 stood on the shelves and in the recesses of the 
 carved oaken mantelpiece, as they had stood 
 for generations past. 
 
 Catherine found herself dwelling regretfully on 
 
390 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 the thought that the Abbey was presently to 
 pass, even for a time, into the hands of strangers. 
 She wondered at the indifference with which 
 she had hitherto regarded her child's inheritance. 
 
 Now that she sat here, in her former place, 
 as chdtelainey she became sensible once more 
 of the charm possessed by an ancient and stately 
 house for its inmates; the charm of light, of 
 space, and solitude at will; of echoing tradition 
 in old-world chambers, of dim arched corridors, 
 of silent rooms unoccupied and haunted with 
 memories, of treasures collected under one roof, 
 belonging to several centuries, and linked by 
 the ownership of successive generations. 
 
 A change of atmosphere often changes the 
 point of view, and just now the spell of her 
 haven at Shepherd's Rest relaxed and grew 
 fainter, the claims of her cottage life seemed less 
 compelling. 
 
 She laid down her pen and waited — with beat- 
 ing heart. 
 
 David and Philippa came into the hall together, 
 and Philippa, without observing her mother, 
 passed with light, swift steps and mounted the 
 branching staircase to the gallery above. Then 
 David, left alone, saw Catherine. 
 
 He put down his gim, and came and stood 
 beside the writing-table, looking down upon her 
 with his hands in the pockets of his brown shoot- 
 ing jacket. 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 391 
 
 "Catherine, will you trust your child to me?" 
 
 "Far — far sooner than to any one else in the 
 world." 
 
 **I didn't mean to say anything to her, or to 
 you yet," he said, and the colour mounted in 
 his thin, tanned face. "But Lady Sarah '* 
 
 "Oh, Lady Sarah! She is impayahley' said 
 Catherine, with a little nervous laugh, half amuse- 
 ment, half embarrassment. 
 
 "She has spoken to you?" said David. 
 
 "Last night she spoke of her fear that you 
 might need — encouragement," said Catherine. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Did she think it was the Abbey that stood 
 in the way? No, no; it was her youth," he said 
 simply, "but when I heard about Kentisbury! 
 Though I know it can't be just yet," he ended, 
 rather confusedly. 
 
 "I have come round to Lady Sarah's way of 
 thinking," said Catherine. "I believe my Phil 
 will be happier married young — if only it is 
 to the right man." 
 
 "I hope I am the right man," he said wistfully. 
 "I am afraid all the advantages, besides youth, 
 are on her side, though. But she's too generous 
 to think so, and I'll devote my life to making 
 her happy, Catherine." 
 
 "I think you will make her happy," Catherine 
 said. 
 
 She looked at him with a faint, pathetic smile 
 
392 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 hovering over her Hps. Certainly Lady Sarah 
 was right. David was a fine handsome man. 
 Strength and energy seemed personified in his 
 tall, broad-shouldered figure, and from his clear 
 eyes shone sympathy, humour, and intelligence. 
 
 The most casual observer could have seen all 
 this; but Catherine was something more than a 
 casual observer. Her intimate knowledge of 
 Delia revealed to her very fully the character of 
 David, while the intensity of her love for Philippa 
 gave her also something of the sensation of a 
 clairvoyante gazing for a brief moment into the 
 future. She perceived that a time would come 
 when this eager sensitive man would appeal in 
 vain for sympathy and understanding to her 
 cold, beautiful child, who was yet as sincere, as 
 upright, and as guileless as her father had been 
 before her. What did David know of her child's 
 heart — who had fallen in love with the curve 
 of a lovely mouth, the glint of a blue eye; 
 who was bewitched, in a word, by youth and 
 beauty, and the triumphant secret sense of love 
 returned? 
 
 And she would not be able to help him — ^nor 
 to help Philippa. 
 
 She could not live their lives, and, though she 
 understood David so well that she often knew 
 what he was going to say before he spoke, she 
 could not make Philippa do the same. 
 
 On the strength of their love must their hap- 
 
CATHERINE'S CHILD 393 
 
 piness depend — the love that bHnded David 
 now — that she prayed might blind him always — 
 to the limitations of Philippa. 
 
 His voice — the voice of a happy lover — broke 
 in upon her thoughts. 
 
 "Catherine, she hates the idea of letting the 
 Abbey — it must not be." 
 
 **You won't give up your work," she cried, 
 startled and anxious. "You won't settle down 
 here yet?" 
 
 "No, no, no. She is as keen as I am over my 
 work, God bless her! She will come abroad with 
 me — when the time comes — but we'll talk of that 
 later. In any case, I hope we shan't be free to 
 settle down for many a long year yet. But it 
 it would be nice to have the place always ready 
 to come back to. Catherine — we want you to 
 come here, and make your home here, and look 
 after everything and keep it going. No one could 
 do it so well as you. It would be a kind of head- 
 quarters for them all : poor Aunt Dulcinea — Lady 
 Sarah — whom you would. And letting the place 
 for three or four years, as Ash proposes, couldn't 
 make any real difference to Philippa' s interests. 
 Besides she is quite willing to make any sacrifice 
 to have it so, if you will consent." 
 
 "I was thinking just now — I should not care 
 to see strangers here,'* she said slowly, "and — 
 after all, the place is very dear to me." 
 
 "To be sure it must be, since it was your home. 
 
394 CATHERINE'S CHILD 
 
 You, too,** said David, rather tenderly, "have 
 loved here." 
 
 "I have lived and loved," she said dreamily. 
 
 **And been loved," he added warmly. 
 
 She turned and looked at him quickly, upon a 
 sudden impulse; and though she immediately 
 looked away again, David read the mute denial 
 of his last words in her eyes. 
 
 Thus Catherine came back to the Abbey, and 
 took care of it for her child, and for the children 
 of her child. The belief which belongs to youth, 
 that life must be holding some definite prize in 
 reserve — some wonderful happening that time 
 will presently reveal — ^gradually died away, and 
 she asked herself. Is this all? with the wistful- 
 ness of middle age; yet realising her destiny 
 at last, with a submission to Fate that held more 
 of amusement than of regret. 
 
 Doubtless she would presently grow to be con- 
 tent that this was all; for, though there may be 
 many mortals who feel at times even their daily 
 existence to be something of a burden, yet there 
 are but few who are ready and willing to lay that 
 bi;«"den down. 
 
 THE END 
 
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